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COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



POEMS OF PEACE 

AND 
PIECES OF WAR 



FLOYD D. RAZE 



Tht LlbKAKY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Twc Copies Received 

JAN 5 1903 

Copyright Entfy 
CLASS ft 'XXc. N» 

/A^ 5 4^* 

COPY B. I 






11 



Copyright, 1902 

by 

FLOYD D. RAZE 



• • • ' 
• • * • 



NOTES. 

My only excuse in offering this volume to 
the public is my own sincerity in the belief 
that these poems are not .ejitirely devoid of 
merit; however, this matter must be left to- 
the judgment of others, and I can only hope 
that the reader may find within something 
pleasing, even though it be nothing more 
than the end. 

In closing I wish to thank my friends for 
the interest manifested in the little book 
issued some time ago, and trusting that this 
one will meet with the same consideration 
from them, I await the result. 
Sincerely, 

The Author. 



To my sincere friend and fellow-teacher, 

CLARENCE E. RUTHRUFF, 

this book is inscribed. 



CONTENTS. 



POEMS FROM YOUTH. Page. 

The Old Canoe ii 

I Forget 12 

Time 14 

Ben and 1 15 

December 17 

Mary Ann 18 

Lura- Belle 19 

POEMS OF SCHOOL. 

The Teacher 25 

The Senior 27 

To Alonzo Sage 29 

What I Learned 31 

When Adams Taught 33 

Tower and Ruler 36 

Their Privilege 40 

POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM. 

Washington at Trenton 45 

The Liberty Bell 47 

At the Grave 49 

Bon Homme Richard 51 

Yorktown 53 

Marion's Tower 55 

[vl 



Page. 

My Native Land 57 

Bennington 58 

The Soldier's Story 62 

The States 66 

Centennial Chimes 68 

Monmouth 69 

Death of Frazer 70 

In Camp 71 

Moultrie 72 

TRANSLATIONS. 

The Rich Prince 79 

The Glove 80 

Belshazzar 82 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

A Peaceable Dog 87 

Satan 88 

As It Seems 89 

Reply to Pat's Love Letter 90 

Poverty 9a 

Advice 93 

An Epistle to I V 94 

The Parson's Visit 96 

A Wag's Last Joke 97 

Hymn to Niagara 99 

The Stork loi 

Quoits 102 

In Church 104 

Life 106 

Spring 107 

[VI] 



Page. 

Hunting Song io8 

To a Crow no 

Destiny in 

If Ill 

Man's Inheritance 113 

Determination 114 

An Enigma 115 

Look Up 116 

The Landman 117 

To a Daisy 118 

Mother, Where Are You ? 119 

Thanksgiving 120 

Alice Brown 121 

To a Sheet of Paper 123 

St. Nicholas 124 

Eagle Eye 126 

In October 127 

Fishing 128 

Little Girls 129 

Immortality 131 

A Rainy Day 132 

To Know His Way 133 

Rejoice i35 

Circumstances 136 

Grandma I37 

New Year I39 

Cut Across 140 

The Future 141 

When I Am Old 142 



[VII] 



Poems From Youth 



THE OLD CANOE. 



Like an upturned wreck on a lonely shore, 
Where the waves are sobbing evermore; 
Like a voice half heard in an olden dream, 
Or the mellow noise of a silver stream, 
Where the seabird wheels in his lonely flight, 
And never a sail greets the weary sight, 
'Mongst the weeds that have pierced the old 

hulk through. 
Lies the crumbling wreck of the old canoe. 

Long years ago, when the summer breeze 
Scarce ruffled the breast of the tranquil seas, 
Sweet Ruth and I, 'neath the azure blue, 
Rode the sparkling waves in that old canoe. 
And her voice went out on the silvery tide 
To the gray, cold rocks, where the echoes hide; 
And my heart with the song went floating away. 
As we rocked on the tide through the beautiful day. 

Long years ago — but that voice is still, 
'Neath the marble tomb on the somber hill, 
Where the willow bends to the shivering wind. 
And the ivy green o'er her grave has twined. 



12 POEMS FROM YOUTH 

Alone I walk the strand to-day; 

Alone I watch the waves at play, 

As they chase each other through and through 

The broken wreck of the old canoe. 

There 's a beautiful realm beyond the skies, 
Where a smile of peace forever lies^. 
On the silver sea and the tranquil shore; 
There a maiden waits forevermore; 
And she softly trims her silken sail 
To catch the breath of the scented gale; 
And she tunes her harp with an anthem sweet, 
As she 'waits the approach of my weary feet. 



The above poein was written bv my father, Edwin E. Raze. 

F. D. R. 



I FORGET. 

When I turn to my youth for the pleasure it gave, 
Not a thing from the lap of old fortune I crave; 
Not a care have I then for the days yet to come, 
And my daily companion, Old Fretful, sits dumb. 
And I hear twenty wags, if I hear even one, 
All inviting me back to partake of the fun. 

With this all before me I throw down my cane 
And leave the rough highway for young lover's 
lane; 



POEMS FROM YOUTH 13 

I forget crippled joints and lumbago of back, 
I forget sixty years drag along on my track, 
And I join in the gay crowd, the gayest by half, 
Swing around on one heel and bend double to laugh. 

I forget that my head shines as bright as new tin; 
That my remnant of cheek has grown faded and 

thin; 
That my hand is unsteady, and firmly I grasp 
The hand of some fellow our friendship to clasp. 
I forget politics and the weather and all, 
For the shindig is on in the old village hall. 

It makes me forget I'm alone on the sea 
With a half-broken plank twixt the bottom and me. 
For youth is the main-mast and love is the sail, 
While courtship and "smack" bear me on through 

the gale. 
And I'm gay as the rest in the mirth of the dance. 
While the night glides away like an hour of a 

trance. 

And the lass at my side is the belle of the ball. 
Who keeps even step in her whirl 'round the hall, 
While with rattle of heel and with tripple-touch toe 
We allemande left to the swing of the bow; 
Till onward and on like the flow of a stream 
We finish the breakdown with somebody's dream. 



14 POEMS FROM YOUTH 

Then I wake and review all the struggles and strife 
In my long promenade to the breakdown of life, 
And I laugh at the thought of my being placed back 
Full two score of years on life's zigzaggy track; 
For what with bald head and lumbago and all, 
Would it pay to plod back for the belle of the ball? 



TIME. 



Old Time, golden Time, what brilliant array 
Of hopes that arose wilh the dawn of thy day 
Has vanished from sight like the foam on the sea — 
Slipped away from the world in the twilight with 
thee! 

What music is hushed! I listen in vain 
For the sweet rippled cadence of laughter again; 
Thy clanking, O Time, on thy dull dreary round 
Has sunk the best notes to a low muffled sound. 

What eyes have grown dim and what hearts have grown 

still, 
Asleep 'neath the sod on the slope of the hill — 
Since thou, golden Time, hast departed! What 

tears 
Have blotted life's page in the many long years. 

Since thou'st left the heart, the warm heart, to grow 

cold 
In the breast of the passionate dreamer of old, 



POEMS FROM YOUTH 15 

And Mem'ry to linger and mourn with regret 
For pleasure she never can wholly forget! 

Old Time, golden Time, my joy is to-day 
In dreaming of scenes that have long passed away, 
In thinking of days so endearing to me 
When I lived in the bloom of life's summer with 
thee. 



BEN AND I. 



Ben and I were boys together 
On the hill in winter weather. 
Like the hours we slid away, 
(Boys and hours alike so gay) ! 
Boys and time together sped 
Down the hillside sled to sled; 
Ben and I came tugging back. 
Time held on its endless track. 

Ben and I were boys together. 
Barefoot in the summer weather; 
Happy as the birds that flew 
From the meadow's sparkling dew. 
In the loft we tramped the hay. 
Helpers through the blazing day. 
And at night a blanket spread 
Just to sleep "up overheard." 

There we chatted, Ben and I, 
At the first a little shy, 



16 POEMS FROM YOUTH 

Then of greater things we'd do; 
Battle scenes and love scenes, too. 
Silly secrets slyly told, 
Just like folks tell when they're old. 
I was growing bold, but then 
Not a bit more so than Ben. 

Just a few years bring a lad 
To a youth so shocking bad! 
So it is: and Ben and I 
Grew less bold but wondrous sly; 
Watermelons 'gan to grow, 
Got ripe in the loft you know; 
Peaches softened on the beams 
While we took our morning dreams. 

Strange to say with all the sin 
That Ben used to lead me in, 
I recall him with a joy 
Which I knew when just a boy. 
Yesterday I passed the barn, 
Thought of each sly trick and yarn. 
Swung the gate and walking through 
Barn and hill were all I knew 
Of the old familiar place 
Which my presence used to grace 
In the good old seasons when 
Ben knew me and I knew Ben. 

Had I stopped and told my name 
Not one there had known the same; 
Ah me, alas! I walked away, 
Brief of word and brief of stay: 



POEMS FROM YOUTH 17 

Left the strangers standing still 
As I climbed the sloping hill, 
Only pausing to look back 
Down the well-remembered track 
Where I rode in winter, when 
Ben knew me and I knew Ben. 



DECEMBER. 



Just a little while ago, 

Not so long but I remember, 
'Twas a joy for me to know 

'Twas the month of cold December. 
When the stars shone pale by night 
O'er a universe of white — 

Winds a blowing — 
'Twas a happy time of year 
Spite of skies so dull and drear, 
Spite of northern frost and chill 
It had charms which linger still, 
Ever wooing. 

Sleigh-loads out at night, and bells 
Jingling as we'd onward go. 

O'er the valleys and the fells 
In the frosty snow; 

Twenty muffled girls and boys 

All for fun and making noise, 
Little knowing 

That the world would grow less gay 

At no very distant day, 



18 POEMS FROM YOUTH 

That their smiles would change to tears 
In the circle of the years 
Still agoing. 

Tho' it may seem long ago, 

Who's so old he can't remember 
When he laughed to see the snow 

Sifting down through cod December? 
Who was then so wise to know 
That the years would glide on so. 

Ever throwing 
Shadows where the sunshine lay, 

More* o& grief from day to day, 
Till the. greatest joy is found 
Chasing time's vast circles round 
While 'tis snowing? 



MARY ANN. 



Who is proud of having gold, 

Let him on riches gloat, 
Who is proud if young or old 

Of his fitting coat, 
On this truth let him rely, 

Vain are they to soothe the spirit, 
Tho' they please the selfish eye 

Naught of Heaven do they merit. 
Blest above them all is he 

Who has won the heart of woman. 
Blest am I in loving thee, 

Maiden so divinely human, 



POEMS FROM YOUTH 19 

Mary Ann so young and slender, 
Mary Ann so sweet and tender, 
Just the girl to charm the eye — 
Just the girl to love. 

Who would like to live alone 

Let him have his hall — 
Nothing less than sapphire stone 

Set in marble wall. 
Who would live for wisdom's wreath 

Add unto his years 
And keep him till his latest breath 

From bitterness of tears. 
But give to me not such as this — 

Build a hut for me, 
That I may live a life of bliss 

Sweet Mary Ann with thee. 
Mary Ann so young and slender, 
Mary Ann so sweet and tender, 
Just the girl to charm the eye — 
Just the girl to love. 



LURA-BELLE. 



Do you remember the days gone by 
When we, young lovers, strayed 

By the river gurgling along so nigh 
Our path in the maples' shade. 

As we walked so gaily along the dell 

Do you remember, Lura-Belle? 



ao POEMS FROM YOUTH 

Do you remember the flowers that grew 

Down in the maples' shade — 
The daisy and arbutus too, 

And bluebells with their modest hue — 
Do you remember them as well 
As I remember, Lura-Belle? 

Do you remember what you said 

One evening long ago 
When stars were twinkling overhead 

And the moon hung round and low? 
You said that yo — er — shall I tell — 
Don't you remember, Lura-Belle? 

Do you remember — yes, you do — 

As we still strolled along, 
How you kissed me and I kissed you? 

It surely wasn't wrong. 
Do you remember how I fell 
In love by courting Lura-Belle? 

Do you remember when we were wed 
Our honeymoon plans were laid, 

And time moved on with ruthless tread 
Till a babe stopped our walks in the shade 

Do you remember how I fell 

To walking at midnight, Lura-Belle? 

Do you remember as I do 

My soft tread on the floor. 
As later on I walked with two. 

Then walked with three, then four? 



POEMS FROM YOUTH 21 

Do you remember that as well 
As I remember, Lura-Belle? 

Do 5'ou remember with regret 

The days of care and strife 
Since you resigned the epithet 

Of "Sweet-heart" to be "Wife"? 
And do you sigh in turning to 
The dell in which I courted youT 



Poems of School 



THE TEACHER. 



He used to be a sturdy pill 

Like Thor of Jotunheim. 
No other one could till the hill 

In bringing boys to time; 
He used to wear a double fist, 

A heavy black goatee, 
And only good behavior missed 

A dire calamity. 

Like Julius Caesar he was strong, 

Like Washington, was great; 
Like Garfield, drove the mule along 

To drag the ship of state; 
And thus he toiled from day to day 

The whole long seasons round. 
And dredged the channel without pay 

Whene'er he ran aground. 

A bachelor — he gave his life 

To education's cause: 
I mean a man without a wife, 

Not Bachelor of Laws. 
He never heard that ancient noise 

Which makes so many glad, 
That extract of the joy of joys 

In father, pa, or dad. 

And yet I s'pose a thousand 
Young Americans have lain 



26 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

Face downward 'cross his sturdy knee, 
And kicked and yelled in vain, 

While he so calm and graceful 
Played the tutor's noble part 

In fitting them for better deeds; 
O, but he made them smart! 

They tell me one's a senator, 

And one's an LL. D.; 
Another runs a war-ship 

For the government at sea; 
And one's a sharp detective 

Who discloses fearful crimes; 
And one's a rising poet 

Tickling up the world with rhymes. 

And every mother's son of these 

And many more beside 
Are pointing to that master 

With an air of honest pride; 
And each one bows with reverence. 

And proudly claims that he 
Received his first impetus 

On that sturdy master's knee. 

And tho' he's gone his influence 

Has far outlived his name; 
For none know what became of him, 

None know from whence he came; 
But that he lived and labored here 

A thousand hearts attest. 
They feared him only at the worst 

And loved him at the best. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 27 

THE SENIOR. 



O have you seen the senior in her graduating dress? 
She's the symbol or perfection and perfection, too, 

I guess. 
She's not the common girl you knew a few short 

years ago — 
The girl who used to come to school in checkered 

calico — 
She's not the girl who used to sit so near your 

knife-carved seat 
Whose winning smile so often caused your heart 

an extra beat. 
She's not the girl you sometimes kissed in a too 

loving game, 
They bear a strong resemblance, but they're not 

the very same. 
'And is this senior less a sprite than she I knew 

before?" 
O no! Why, bless your heart, she's all she used 

to be and more. 

She used to be just common "Gen," but now she's 

"Genevieve;" 
To-day she offers pardon where she used to grant 

reprieve; 
To-day she sings soprano where she used to squeal 

and squeak; 
She speaks in classic English, tho' she often thinks 

in Greek. 
She's learned the scholar's easy way and grown 

so much refined, 



28 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

I'll scarcely try to say how far she's left the past 
behind; 

What narrow pools of knowledge have grown mean- 
time to be 

As many sweeping Amazons just verging on the 
sea. 

She reads the German fluently, die Sprache alt und 

schon. 
Tho' Caesar puzzles commoners, for her he wrote 

in vain. 
Her mind's imago parva of the classic wisdom 

when 
The Seniors in the school of life were high and 

mighty men. 
She knows the master-pieces as a sailor knows the 

stars ; 
She'll quote from Homer's Odyssey — its love scenes 

and its wars. 
She'll tell you tales of Paris' ways, of Helen's days 

of joy , 
And just how long old Hector fought before he fell 

at Troy. 
She knows the "Rise and Fall of Rome," although 

it can't be said 
She has an equal knowledge of the rise and fall of 

bread. 
She's drunk from scientific cups, and yet I must 

confess 
I don't believe this senior made her graduating 

dress. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 29 

TO ALONZO SAGE. 



You are Sage and I am Raze; 
We were friends in bygone days; 
We are friends and friendly still 
Like the fir-trees on the hill. 
We were boys one time in school, 
You the Sage and I the fool; 
Now we live in manhood's age, 
You be fool while I be sage. 

Forgive, old chum, for friendship's sake — 
For often does my sad heart ache 
For old time scenes that passed too soon; 
When harp and banjo, each in tune. 
Breathed out the strain, now loud, now low, 
While roared the fire and beat the snow 
Against the icy window-pane. 

Our books — Ah, what cared we for books - 
Still in the sacks hung on the hooks — 
Till from the tea-pot's narrow snout 
The smell of supper oozed out, 
A warning that we stop the fun 
That seemingly had just begun. 

How many nights while sitting there 
We'd hear a football on the stair; 
And welcome visitors were they 
Who came to work, or rather play, 
To laugh, to joke, to sing "Marie." 



30 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

Or "Rob and Allan Cam' to Free," 
Till nothing but the street-light shone, 
When we at last were left alone. 
To do the work of half a daj'- 
In thirty minutes anyway. 

'Twas winter then. You know the bells 

That soothed the young Mt. Pleasant swells 

Went jangling past our neat abode 

On horses scrambling down the road 

As if to walk had been a sin. 

A clerk, no doubt, you'd find within 

The cutter, with some laughing girls 

Whose rosy cheeks and lovely curls 

Glared on the window as they passed. 

No wonder that a glance we cast; 

No wonder that we wondered why 

Such fellow should have caught such eye. 

We knew those girls, old schoolmates they, 

Who met us at the school each day. 

We knew what innocence of look 

They feigned, when Bellows seized the book 

And quizzed in vain each lessoned page. 

His keen eyes half aglow with rage. 

We knew the why and longed to work 

The mischief back upon the clerk. 

But time has passed. Those boys and girls 
Pill up the ranks that move the world's 
Great spirit. They are in the race 
To win or lose; and each must trace 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 31 

His wonted course through life's short coil 

Of smiles and tears. Ah. time brings toil 

To every one. What weary care 

He brings the heart! Ere we're aware 

A day has fled, a year has passed, 

And life indeed comes on too fast. 

But let old Time bring on his worst — 
Time that by all the world is cursed. 
We will not curse him, let him be 
What'er he will to you and me. 
'Twas he that brought us face to face; 
'Tis he still aids us in the chase; 
'Tis he that makes us what we are; 
'Tis he 'twill lead us on afar, 
To what a goal? To what an age? 
No matter: I'll remember Sage, 
And know, however long your days 
May be, — you'll still remember Raze. 



WHAT I LEARNED. 



I went to school when I was young. 

When all the world was gay. 
And learned to read with fluent tongue 

The annals of the day. 

I learned the boy's mischievous part 

Before I learned to read; 
I learned the teacher's face by heart, 

She learned my first misdeed. 



32 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

I learned to think each girl a queen 

And longed to be a king; 
Then started, as I thought, unseen 

To help along the thing. 

I looked at Jane across the aisle 

And Jane looked up at me; 
My heart sprang up to greet her smile 

Undaunted as could be. 

Perhaps Jane thought each boy a king 
And longed to be a queen — 

I can't believe another thing 
Could bring the self-same sc«ne. 

I whispered "Jane" — well, I won't say 
The rest — there was no rest. 

Just then the teacher turned that way 
And caught me I'll be blest. 

I don't know if she heard my "Jane" 

Or saw my hanging head, 
But even now I hear again 

The very words she said. 

'John, you may go and sit with Jane." 

I didn't want to go. 
But blushing cheeks plead all in vain. 

I moved, but oh, so slow. 

I guess Jane thought I'd never come; 
She fumbled round her book, 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 33 

And though her lips were sealed and dumb 
She had a loving look. 

How loud they laughed that summer day 

To make a small boy sad. 
'Cause Jane had stole his heart away, 

They jeered the shame-faced lad. 

But when the merriment was o'er, 

And teacher dropped her eye, 
Tane whispered, "They won't laugh no more." 

Then hugged me on the sly. 

That was the climax. I had stood 

The laugh of every one, 
Nor would I change it tho' I could. 

I envied them no fun. 

E'en now I think big girls are queens, 

And Jane a queen of elves — 
That even school-ma'arys, just for greens, 

Would squeeze the boys themselves. 



WHEN ADAMS TAUGHT THE SCHOOL. 



How well do I remember little happenstances when 
Our district schoolhouse used to hold a half a dozen 

men; 
How little teachers who, of course, with less of 

brawn than brain 

3 



34 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

Were pitched out just for pastime and left standing 

in the rain. 
I recollect Tom Johnston and the fellows of his 

clique 
All standing 'round the schoolhouse and all telling 

who they'd lick. 
They reckoned that "the teacher'd pony 'round 

about jest so; 
Wouldn't give them much o' sass or out o' there 

he'd go." 
"Find a plan to lick the teacher" used to be the 

golden rule, 
But It changed a very little after Adams took the 

school. 



Adams didn't talk a whole lot, guess he didn't like 

to preach; 
Seemed at first he came to visit — then made up 

his mind to teach; 
Acted as he hadn't noticed Johnston and his burly 

crew, 
Nor the broken window-sashes that the teachers all 

went through. 
So the boys began a winking, smiling blandly on 

each other, 
And a nodding toward the teacher and a whisp'ring, 

"He's another." 
Just a day or two of teaching — then an outburst — 

was the rule. 
But they changed this custom slightly after Adams 

took the school. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 35 

So the boys began to study for some ghost of an 

excuse — 
They didn't want to make it seem too much like 

pure abuse; 
At last it was decided. They wouldn't be too 

hard, 
But give him just a round or two in mopping up the 

yard; 
And then the plan was cut and dried — Tom 

jumped up all at once, 
"Look here, ole foller, 't seems ter me I hain't no 

first-grade dunce; 
These kind o' zamples that you give is hardly goin' 

ter stick. 
We're goin' ter have a teacher here what knows 

aritheiitick.'' 
Arithmetic was something quite important as a 

rule, 
And it reached the very climax after Adams took 

the school. 



Multiples and great divisors! Not a mathematician 

he! 
Tom's contortions illustrated plane geometry, 
Engineering and surveying; 'twas a great example 

that, 
And teacher showed them all at once he'd got it 

right down pat. 
He showed them how whole numbers were inverted, 

lo, and then. 
How zigzag divers figures brought them right-side 

up again; 



ao POEMS OF SCHOOL 

Hliow<ul what wjiH mount by I'tactlonH and the 

(tunbh^ nih; of llirce, 
And how the llnul llKiire waa u mInuB quantity. 
"Lookin' for thoHo kind o' zampUiH," iilwayn usod 

to Ik» th(! vu\v. 
But thoy changt^d thlH habit Hlightly, after AdaniH 

took the Mchool. 



THE TOWER AND RULER. 



If — when 1 look around and ace 

So many Hinait folks Imto with me, 

So many liradt; viuli liki^ my own, 

Wi'iU tilled with brain, wril formed by bone — 

i Huy. If I Hhonld be ho proud 

Ah read my verne a Irllhi loud, 

I'erluipH your pardon I'll engage 

Ah well beoomeH the preflent age. 

There may be some with heads of gray 

Among the llHtenera here to-day, 

Somo who liave llvtul In MlchlKaii 

Wlu^n wolvt'H howled 'mongst the deer that ran. 

When logging bees were eommon things. 

When villages wa'n't run by rings. 

And nearest neighbors lived too far 

For Hocks of chickens to debar 

Existing friendship. 'Tie with these 

My theme's related, If you please. 

'Tl8 from those times 1 catch the gleam 

Of progress In its narrow stream. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 87 

You who have seen say fifty years 

Of hardship in this vale of tears. 

Know e'en too well each varying phase 

Which brought you to these latter days. 

You've watched the growth of church and school, 

The wise saint grow from sinful fool; 

You've seen the master's warlike place 

Succeeded by the mistress' grace — 

The eagle followed by the dove, 

And cruelty by human love. 

You've seen the old log house retreat, 
The bench displaced by patent seat, 
The forest where the schoolhouse stood 
Become a field devoid of wood — 
A meadow waving in the breeze 
Which used to howl among the trees. 
Those forests succumbed to the hand 
That bore at night the firebrands. 
But where went all the underbrush? 
Will no one give me answer? Hush! 
Alas, 'tis sad, tho' not less true — 
'Twas for the most part used on you. 

Formidably, each knotty beech 
Hung round the master's desk in reach, 
And many a gray-haired man can show 
Impressions gotten long ago. 
When by appealing to his pride 
He lost a peeling from his hide. 
But this the world's forgetting fast; 
'Tis sinking In the shady past. 



38 POEMS OF SCHOOL 

And stripes that schoolboys used to wear 
Look better floating in the air. 
The tears brought ioith by stars they saw 
Have changed to proud shouts of "Hurrah." 

What better thing than this can be, 

Such wonders wrought by you and me, 

And hundreds, aye, and thousands more 

Who live and die e'en as obscure, 

'Tis not the blazing comet's light 

That guides the traveler night by night, 

But that pale gleaming from afar 

Of each unknown but constant star. 

Despite the claims of war and blood 

On present peace and sisterhood. 

The grandeur of our nation claims 

The patronage of other names 

Than link themselves with boasting power; 

The schoolhouse is this nation's tower. 

And e'en the master long ago 

Who wrought upon your backs such woe, 

(In spite of knotty birch and beech) 

Was it not he who came to teach 

The glorious way of Liberty, 

The wrong and shame of slavery? 

Tho' so severe, his tactics fed 

The empty chambers of the head. 

We must forgive the painful smart, 

He had the nation's good at heart. 

Forget his threats and frowns the while 

And revel in his honest smile. 

In that old time when Plymouth Rock 

Was pressed by Brewster and his flock. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 39 

Did not the schoolhouse rude presage 

The glory of the present age? 

How great was Carver, Standish, too! 

But lesser lights like me and you 

Were destined to perform a part 

Above the warrior's subtle art. 

While Standish taught the men to fight, 

The teacher taught the boys to write. 

Thus what with Plymouth was begun 

These centuries of toil have won. 

And where the sword has cleaved a joint, 

The pen has claimed a sharper point. 

Again, of you who've watched the sway 

Of empires since your natal day, 

I ask where is th' unshaken throne? 

What monarch bravely holds his own 

With banner floating in the air 

Invisible, yet everywhere, 

Whose emblem still is Victory? 

It is the monarch Liberty. 

Blessed is the nation, strong the power 

Which claims the schoolhouse as its tower. 

Blessed is the mission of a land 

Led on by such a monarch's hand. 

So let the soldier's sudden fame 

Burst in its meteoric flame 

And vanish. Let the statesman's art 

So gloriously fulfill its part. 

When each of these is past and gone. 

The fountain-head still bickers on. 

And you and I can proudly say. 

The teacher rules the world to-day. 



40 POEMS OF SCHOOL 



THEIR PRIVILEGE. 



I took my seat behind the stand — 

As wielder of the rule — 
To ope my mouth in stern command 

To youngsters of the school. 
A dozen curly headed boys, 

A dozen girls there too — 
Were 'ranged along like pretty toys 

Or daisies in the dew. 



I had a list two feet in length 

Of misdemeanors which 
I must put down, though all my strength 

Were called to use the switch. 
And then the board had left me there 

To ferret out some way 
To foil a tyrant's just despair 

Attendant on his sway. 



For long I thought the matter o'er 

Not knowing what to do; 
I took the foolscap sheet once more 

To read the whole thing through, 
Then rising slowly from my chair - 

My inward conscious said — 
That fool director ought to wear 

This paper on his head. 



POEMS OF SCHOOL 41 

I couldn't bear to make boys sad 

And break girls' hearts, you know; 
'Tis better far to make them glad, 

Than see them grieving so. 
But what withal could I well say 

To keep them calm and cool, 
When the director left that day 

With me the rules of school? 

At last a happy thought appeared — 

I'd hunt this foolscap through. 
Alas! It was as I had feared 

So much they couldn't do. 
I rose up cheerfully and stood — 

"Dear children, large and smalL 
I give you leave to chew your food 

At dinner time, that's all." 



POEMS OF WAR AND 
PATRIOTISM 



WASHINGTON AT TRENTON. 



The Hessian mercenaries lay 
A thousand strong in Trenton town 
While slowly, slowly, day by day, 
Our ragged soldiers still at bay, 
The nation's hope went down. 

The war-cloud, which had hung so high 

On bloody Bunker Hill, 

Now dark'ning in the winter sky, 
Spread out its garment's sable dye 

Its mission to fulfill. 

As those who doomed to die but wait 

In silence and in dread. 
Who know that hours have grown so late 
That death but lingers as a fate 

Upon life's parting thread, 

So waited all those braver men 

In fear and deep suspense. 
No hope had they for freedom then — 
No human power could gain again 

Their well-earned recompense. 

But stay, one heart, tho* deep oppressed, 

Misfortune gave not o'er; 
One cause which love of God had blessed 
Was foremost in that dauntless breast 

As it had been before. 



16 POEMS OP^ WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

The swollen Delaware swept on 

Between him and his foe 
With maddened rush from dark till dawn. 
From dawn till dark still roaring on 

In a defiant flow. 

And while the Hessians sang and drank 
In drunken mirth at Christmas ball, 
Our ragged soldiers rank on rank 
Were forming on the farther bank, 
Were silent one and all. 

And see, whene'er the wind doth blow 

The driving sleet aside, 
The dark night 'gainst the drifting snow 
Reveals a hundred boats that go 

Like shadows on the tide. 

The blinding storm, the roaring stream, 
The battling ice-blocks on their way, 
The howling of the night winds seem, 
Like warnings of prophetic dream, 
To echo one word "stay." 

But resolute to do his part 
Each plies his oar, the bank is won. 
And now for joyous Trenton start 
Led by the strong and mighty heart 
Of dauntless Washington. 

Nino weary miles! The rising sun 
Flings back the sable pall of night. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 47 

The snow-blown army marches on, 
The terrors of the , storm are gone, 
And Trenton lies in sight. 

Then comes the word, the rush, the rise, 

Of battle's turmoil. Wild and free, 
Re-echo through the morning skies — 
The outcome of a night's surprise — 

The cheers of victory. 

I tell what has been often told 
Tho' never told in vain. 

Such tales with age will ne'er grow old 

But come with blessing manifold 
Like drops of summer rain. 

I tell it not with battle pride, 
But as a true and loyal son 

Of that blest land where slav'ry died 

Where Peace and Liberty abide 
Because of Washington. 



THE LIBERTY BELL. 



Once (how many years are gone), 
Once an old man mounted high, 

And below him sat his son 
Waiting as the hours dragged by^ 

Waiting where an old bell hung 
With its silent iron tongue. 



48 POKMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Waited there, the old and young, 
Up against the sky. 

And the old man sat in tears; 

Sat there by the iron bell, 
While with mingled hopes and fears 

Did his strong heart swell 
As he waited 'gainst his will 

Hoping good but fearing ill; 
Hour by hour he waited still — 

Waited by the bell. 

Waiting, waiting far below 

Is the city's eager throng; 
E'en the Delaware doth flow 

Sluggishly its course along — 
Tarries as it too would wait 

To proclaim a nation's fate 
From those silent halls of state. 

Silent, O so long. 

But the time has come at last. 

Time for sorrow or for joy. 
For the nation's die is cast — 

See the bright eyes of the boy! 
"Ring, O ring!" It is his call 

Echoed from the trembling wall, 
Sounding from that silent hall 

Mighty in its joy. 

Then the old man's trembling hand 
Seized the iron tongue. The bell 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 49 

Clanging, pealing o'er tlie land 

Never rang so well. 
Loud and long upon the air, 

Long and loud it echoed there, 
Far adown the Delaware 

Pealed and clanged the bell. 

And the river rolled away 

While the bell tolled on. 
Bore its message to the bay 

Sparkling in the sun. 
And the ocean's hoarser roar 

Softened by the tones it bore. 
Whispered far along the shore, 

"It is done." 

Let the bells ring out to-day 

Like this one of old. 
Let their iron tongues convey 

All it ever told; 
May their softer murmurs creep 

Where the Fathers lie asleep, 
While their tones of Freedom sweep 

Onward as of old. 



AT THE GRAVE. 



This Is the soldier's camping-ground, 

His weary day is passed. 
And peaceful night has settled round 

The warrior's head at last. 

4 



50 rOEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Tfo KloepH in the lent that Nature gave — 

A long, unbroken sleep — 
And heavenly angels guard his grave 

Through silence vast and deep. 



No more the roll of the stirring drum 

His Kl(H!ping ear doth know; 
The cannon's brazen lips are dumb, 

And van(|uiHh(Ml every foe, 
And here in a cloak of matted flowers, 

In the shade of the whisp'ring pine, 
Is sleei)ing the form that once was ours 

A hero of the line. 



And here, a comrade bent and gray 

With shaking voice doth tell 
Of the l)loody flght of a distant day 

On the field where the hero fell, 
Of a message sent by a wounded son 

To a father whose eye 'twould dim, 
And a last "good-by" to that dearer one — 

The mother who prayed for him: 



Of how, in th(^ toils of the master, Death, 

In th(> last (lull hour of life, 
TT(» bi'eathed a piayer with his dying breath 

Fov a loved and loving wife, 
And little ones who'd heard her say 

What happiness would come 
To usher in (he dawning day 

When ho should march for home. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 51 

Not they alone have sorrow borne 

Who lost a father's care, 
Who for a martyred son do mourn, 

Who weeps for husband, dear, 
A grieving nation mourns tlie dead 

Asleep beneath these flowers. 
And with those mourners bows her head 

And murmurs, "He is ours." 



BON HOMME RICHARD. 



J.iko him for whom 'twas christened, 

Was that good old ship of yore. 
To the tale tlio' ol't you've listened. 

Won't you listen just once more? 
Her guns are rusting in the sea — 

The mighty guns which hurled 
Those messengers of Liberty 

Along the eastern world. 



There was a time this vessel ploughed 

The waters of the main. 
A time wh(!n winds and billows loud 

Roared 'cross her path in vain. 
A time when with her dauntless crew, 

No danger did she dread 
From stoutest storm that ever blew 

Or British ship ahead. 



5^^ POEMS OP^ WAR AND PATRIOTISlW 

It is a hundred years or more, 

Since on a British sea 
The dauntless Richard proudly bore 

Her flag of liberty; 
Since from the mast the watchman's voice 

Sent down the joyful hail, 
"A Britisher to leeward boys, 

She's heading in full sail." 

Each valiant sailor takes his post, 

And none of danger reck. 
The Richard turns head out from coast 

While Jones strides 'long the deck. 
He turns his eye alternately 

To eastward and to west. 
"If but the sun will light the sea, 

I'll gladly risk the rest." 

Despite his prayers the autumn sun 

Sank ere the fight began. 
And through a gathered cloud-wreath dun 

The moon shone pale and wan. 
And night hung round them. Fore and aft, 

To windward and to lee, 
The crested billows hoarsely laughed 

The mock'ry of the sea. 

And in the dim uncertain light, 

A shadowed outline lay. 
A sheet of fire blazed through the night 

And quenched itself in spray. 
And then began the fiercest fight 

That ever shook the sea — 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 5a , 

i 

i 
The Richard in the cause of right j 

Against bold Tyranny. ) 

i 

Two weary hours of night are gone, | 

And from a sinking wreck. 

The Richard's crew is master on ■ 

The Briton's bloody deck. ] 

But where is she, that vessel now, \ 

That traveler afar, i 

That bravely bore upon her prow, ! 

Bold Freedom's flashing star? 

I 
No more her dark hulk meets the sun. ] 

No more her pennants fly ; 

Defiant, for her cause was won j 

A hundred years gone by. 
And naught remains except, perhaps, ■ 

The iron of her frame, ; 

And that which through an endless laps© ] 

Of time shall live, her fame. i 



YORKTOWN. 



Now that the days of the turmoil are passed, 
Now that we've grown to a nation at last, 
Let us not feign to forget what we owe 
And thanklessly reap what our fathers did sow. 
Let us not now 'neath the blue of the skies 
Wilfully cover the past from our eyes — 
Let us not think that the blessings of good 
Never were stained by the crimson of blood. 



54 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Many and deep were the griefs that they bore; 
They who defended the nation of yore. 
Few were the joys then to lighten their load, 
Few were the blessings their sufC'ring bestowed. 
Shelterless up on the winter-swept hills, 
Freezing and starving, the least of their ills, 
Seven long years through the shadow of night 
Led by a hope of the triumph of Right, 
Onward they pressed 'gainst misfortune and fate — 
One upon one 'rose the pillars of state. 
Now by the Delaware's swift rolling tide, 
Now in the North by the blue Hudson's side, 
Now in the South by the wooded Santee — 
There was blood, crimson blood on the soil that's 
now free. 

There was gloom through the length and the 

breadth of the land. 
With a foe from the uttermost bounds to the strand, 
The gloom of defeat and the havoc of war. 
When lo, in the east 'rose the gleam of a star — 
When lo, from the east came the gleam of the sun 
With the news that the crowning vict'ry was won, 
For a messenger rode from the field by the sea 
With the news of the fight and America free — 
With his voice ringing clear through the night as 

he passed 
The prayer of a nation was answered at last 

O heaven blessed land, land of mountain and plain. 
When Shalt thou 'wake to such glory again, 
When — tho' existence allotted to thee 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 55 

Run undisturbed to eternity — 
When shall a similar message convey- 
All the rich hues of that short autumn day — 
When from the gloom shall arise such a light, 
Sprinkling with gold the deep shade of a night? 
Never: Tho' thou in thy grandeur may claim 
Glory and power in the sound of thy name — 
Never a sound shall echo more sweet 
Through the broad aisles of thy merriest street 
Than was the voice of that Herald to thee 
"Past two o'clock and America free." 



MARION'S TOWER.* 



Whoever can read may read by the page 

Of dingy old towers where fell 
The heads of the noblest, age after age. 

Too many for me to tell. 
There's the famous old structure in London Town, 

The blot of a famous hill, 
Whose domes and turrets are looking down 
With the pitiless gaze of a despot's frown 

And the mien of a tyrant still. 



♦Marion's Tower was a rude log structure built 
on the Santee River during the Revolutionary War. 
From Its summit Marion's riflemen picked off the 
gunners in a British fort near by, thus making it 
untenable. 



56 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

And too. in the mild Italian clime, 

Is the leaning miracle — 
Tho' built far back in an olden time — 

'Tis true 'twas builded well — 
But from its glistening walls below 

One sees but the hue of pride, 
Which only the riches of kings bestow, 
Poised as it were for the overthrow 

Of itself and naught beside. 

But the tower of towers which blessed the world 

Was built on the broad Santee, 
Where once the "Stars and Stripes" unfurled 

In the cause of liberty. 
Not from its wall did marble shine 

A wonder of human skill, 
'Twas but a pile of unhewn pine 
Created by a power divine 

To do high Heaven's will. 

Tho' lifted up by a human hand — 

The work of a summer night — 
'Twas a foe to the foe of a struggling land, 

A monument for right. 
Twas Marion's pride when he stood at dawn 

To survey the fort below. 
When the curling smoke of a gun well drawn 
Proclaimed a messenger had gone 

To the heart of his tyrant foe. 

And now with peace en the broad Santee 
And peace in the hearts of men, 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 57 

Who'll turn from the tower of Liberty 

To Loudon's bloody pen? 
Or in the mild Italian clime 

•With Pisa and Chillon, 
Abide in Awe his little time 
Admiring vanity and crime 

In monuments of stone? 



MY NATIVE LAND. 



There's one bright spot on all the earth 

Where I would ever be; 
Thank God that place has been my birth, 

The Land of Liberty. 
Where millions breathe a purer air; 

From mountain-tops and plains; 
Where millions claim a monarch's fare 

And scorn a bondman's chains. 

My native state has charms for me, 

Yet joyfully I roam 
Two thousand miles from sea to sea, 

And claim it all my home; 
Where'er her verdant fields are seen, 

Where'er her mountains rise, 
An air of freedom floats between 

The green earth and the skies. 

What other land can offer more. 
What other land has given, 



58 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Impartial to the rich and poor. 

So much in earth of heaven! 
Go search the empires of the world, 

Wherever 'tis your will, 
Where'er the Stars and Stripes are furled 

There Freedom's voice is still. 

No other land has offered such 

Devotion to such cause. 
No other land can claim so much 

In justice to her laws. 
God grant that all may yet appear 

As free from grief's alloy, 
Where from the eye oppression's tear 

Shall fall a tear of joy. 

But till that happy time shall come, 

Let me a dweller be 
Upon this land, my native home. 

Blest home where all are free; 
And proffer up my warmest prayer 

To Him who sits on high. 
That I who live in this free air 

On this free soil may die. 



BENNINGTON. 



The Red-coats fresh from Albany 

Were forming on the field; 
The glitter«of the morning sun 
Their bayonets revealed. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 59 

'Twas but a part of Burgoyne's sweep — 

A true old English plan — 
To clean the Yankee rebels up 

And thrash them to a man. 



His Majesty was chuckling 

On the throne across the sea, 
And smiling as he thought about 

That "Yankee liberty." 
He laughed to think how things v/ould look 

When this great plan was done, 
With Howe and Burgoyne sailing home 

With captive Washington. 

But royalty with all its state, 

And its estate beside, 
Is but an erring human form 

Conceited in its pride. 
Tho' crowns may be at his command 

And banners o'er him wave, 
A monarch may for all of these 

Be meaner than a slave. 



So on the field of Bennington j 

The August morning broke, i 

Where saber ne'er had glistened, \ 

And where musket ne'er had spoke, 

And strange it seemed for one to see i 

An English battle-line 

Extending from the shady glen i 

Along the ridge of pine. \ 



60 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

And what is that so dusky there, 

A hundred rods in front? 
'Tis Stark's defensive regiment 

To take the battle's brunt. 
And he had said to cheer his men, 

The while they waiting lay, 
"Boys, Molly Stark's a widow 

If those Red-coats win the day." 

Not long the morning sun looked down 

Upon the peaceful scene. 
Not long the grassy valley lay 

So silent and serene. 
The British cannon on the ridge 

Belched forth a deaf'ning roar, 
As thunder heralding a storm, 

Proclaims the calm is o'er. 

Then up rose all the dusky line 

With Stark to take the brunt. 
And charged the English battle-line 

A hundred rods in front. 
A cloud of smoke which deftly hung. 

Like mists at break of day, 
Along the startled valley 

Had slowly rolled away; 

And lo, behind the battle's storm 
Three score were lying dead. 
But still the dusky line swept on, 

The colonel at the head 
They reach the ridge and dash along 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 61 

With Stark to take the brunt. 
They clamor for the British guns 
Scarce twenty feet in front. 



The roar is silenced by the clash 

Of sword and bayonet. 
Five hundred rustics from the rear 

Have manned the parapet. 
The silent guns blaze out once more 

Upon the flying foe. 
Once more the smoky battle cloud 

Hangs in the vale below. 



It clears again and lo, the foe 

Are throwing down their arms. 
The well-trained soldiers knuckle 

To the prowess of the farms. 
'Twas but a repetition 

Of the fate of tyranny — 
A triumph of the God-like power 

Of battle for the Free. 



And when at night the sentinels, 

With weary aching feet. 
Were pacing slowly to and fro 

Along each measured beat, 
'Twas cheering when returning scouts. 

Approaching in the dark, 
Advanced to give the countersign 

And whispered, "Molly Stark." 



62 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 
THE SOLDIER'S STORY. 



We were camping by the river, 

It was the dead of night, 
And the sentries on the left. 

And the sentries on the right, 
And the sentries in the rear. 

All were watchful and awake 
To the swaying of the trees, 

And the rustle of the brake. 

There was much to be heard, 

Tho' but little could be seen — 
Now and then the muffled rattle 

Of an old carbine; 
Now and then a fallen twig 

Breaking neath an army shoe, 
And a whooing and a moaning 

As the night-wind blew. 

We were camping by the river 

And the enemy across. 
In the battle neither won, 

Tho' we both had suffered loss; 
And, as when the fight began, 

We were waiting much the same. 
Waiting for the morrow 

And the end of the game. 

As I said, 'twas after midnight — 

I was pacing long the bank. 
And the trees stood dark and grim. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 63 

Naure's sturdy battle rank. 
There was little to be seen 

But I could plainly hear 
The groaning of the wounded 

And the dying in the rear. 

And the sound of the water, 

As the river swept along, 
Mingled with the groaning 

In a drear death song. 
And I fell sadly thinking 

Of the homestead by the Bay 
As I waited through the darkness, 

Watched and waited for the day. 

Then I started, then I stopped — 

Stopped and listened, and my ear 
Caught the challenge of the sentry. 

By the marsh along the rear: 
In a moment, from the sentries. 

On the left and on the right 
Came the "Halt" as it sounded 

Loud and clear through the night. 

There was much to be heard, 

Tho' but little to be seen; 
The roar and the bellow 

Of an old carbine; 
The waking of the camp 

With its turmoil and its call 
And the clanger of the bugle 

Sounding high above it all. 



tJ4 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Then I looked toward the river, 

As I listened to the roar; 
There was foam upon the tide 

And shadows on the shore; 
There were figures dark and grim 

Creeping noiseless up the bank, 
And beside me stood the foremost 

Of the silent rebel rank. 

I dared not ope my lips 

And I dared not turn in flight. 
Tho' the stars were shining dim 

And the moon was hid from sight, 
To move were certain death, 

To speak had been the same, 
So I stood in silence waiting 

And watching out the game. 

They missed me and they passed me, 

And with a mighty cheer 
They vanished in the darkness, 

Hurried onward toward the rear. 
'Twas Maryland 'gainst Maryland, 

And father fighting son. 
'Twas the rebel re-enlisted 

'Gainst the Union veteran. 

They missed me and they passed me. 
And I turned without delay 

To follow, when a soldier 

Threw himself across my way. 

He had seen me and had waited 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 65 

Till his comrades had gone by, 
And he called out, "Who surrenders, 
Who surrenders, you or I?" 



There was something in his voice 

Made me tremble in my track; 
There was something in his manner 

Set my thoughts to running back. 
Confused, yet with decided tone 

I gave him a reply. 
"Who surrenders? Be assured, sir, 

'Twill be you, not I." 



A thrust and I was down. 

He had thrust and guarded well. 
What next, tho' I am innocent, 

I scarcely dare to tell. 
Tho' down and wounded sore. 

My musket sprang to place — 
A click, a blaze of fire. 

And he fell upon his face. 



He fell beside me there; 

And I fainted dead away; 
He lay beside me there 

At the dawning of the day; 
And I woke and looked on him 

Who at my hand had bled. 
O God! My brother lay there. 

Lay beside me, cold and dead. 
5 



eO POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 
THE STATES. 



Fair sisters all, with Hymbol ono 
Outspniad ])oii(!atli tlu; shining sun, 
Dauglitors of i)rou<l old Uncle Sam 
Wliose falhor's falhor boldly swam 
At sunset from a dock beyond 
Your greatgrandfather's hsliing pond, 
It is to you 1 tune my lyre: 
For you I filch poetic fire 
And trace iv.y rusly pen along 
To dig a channel for my song. 



You fair thirteen — you first and best, 
Dear elder guides of all the rest, 
How can I sing too mu(;h your praise, 
Or hate too much your llrst dark days, 
Or love too much the light whicli shone 
A beacon to the world unknown, 
When slinggllng onward, mind and hand. 
Brought forth the Goddess of the land? 



Tho' not your son, yet 'mongst my claims 
I choose and love to use your names. 
My mother, tho' not 'mongst the few, 
Is yet a sister dear to you; 
Protected by the selfsame Form 
Which guided you through all the storm. 
Your starry banner floating high 
Floats e'en as proudly in her sky. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 67 

So to each one, although I can't 
Say "Mother," I can say "Dear Aunt" 
There's Dear Aunt Rhod-e, Island bound, 
And Aunt Carolin-a prettier sound — 
But while I'm sounding pretty names 
Of aunts on whom I base my claims, 
Let Satan claim me as I am, 
If I forget my Uncle Sam. 

God bless the aunt that steeped the tea 

Her grand-dad sent across the sea; 

I envy Uncle Sam the fun 

Of seeing how the thing was done. 

In novel way the tea was poured, 

While Rhod-e smiled and Mary roared, 

And all the others watching it 

Were laughing almost fit to split 

To see the mermaids as they quaffed 

Three ship-loads at a single draught — 

Tea topers truly, but good tea. 

In spite of tax, had grown so free 

They melted off the narrow snout 

And turned the tea-pot wrong side out. 

Then what? O goodness, 'cross the sea 
Came swear words from His Majesty 
On the first trade-wind to our shore; 
Succeeding ones brought on some more. 
And then? The whole world knows what then. 
Why should I tell it o'er again? 
But here we are — a hundred years 
Since Heaven blessed oiw darkest feari 



68 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

And formed upon a soil of blood 
A land of peace and sisterhood. 
And all the years which intervene 
Have woven for the fair thirteen 
A web of glory finely spun 
Which wraps the many all in One. 



CENTENNIAL CHIMES. 



Did they ever think in the olden time 

Of what the future would be? 
Did ever a proud centennial chime 
Waft down to them, through the mists of time, — 

Float to them over the sea, 
Cheering the hearts of the Puritans bold, 
As they steered for New England, rugged and cold? 

Did the hunter think of the years to come 

As he came to the smoldering heap 
Of what had been his happy home. 
Lighting the forest's midnight gloom 

With its lurid, fitful leap, 
While he wept o'er the bones of his wife and child. 
And the savage howled in the distant wild? 

Did Washington dream of the grand to-day, 
As he watched through the wintry night? 
While around him his barefooted soldiers lay 
And the red coats over the frozen bay 
Were priming their guns for the fight 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 69 

That should capture yon camp-flre's battle array 
And with victory crown the glorious day? 

Did they ever think of the glorious now 

In those rugged storied times? 
Ah, yes! On that wintry night I trow, 
Re-echoing over the frozen snow 

Came the grand centennial chimes, 
And the weaver, Time, o'er his shuttle stopped, 
And a glorious thread of the future dropped. 



MONMOUTH. 



Lee at Monmouth, what about him? 
Better the world had been without him. 
Where and when did he lend a hand 
To help the cause of a struggling land? 
What was his but a traitor's spirit? 
What in sooth does a traitor merit? 
Cursed by the land which gave him birth. 
Never a friend upon the earth — 
Such is his portion, e'en less is his merit. 
Who of all men but a traitor could bear it? 

Who else at Monmouth, and what about him? 
What had the world been at present without him? 
When and where did he lend a hand 
To betray the trust of a struggling land? 
What was his but a noble spirit, 
What in sooth does Washington merit? 



70 POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

Loved by the land which gave him birth, 
Honored by all upon the earth. 
Such is his portion, e'en more is his merit, 
Who but the noble are worthy to share it? 



DEATH OF FRAZER. 



Spoke Morgan to his soldiers 

Lying hidden in the glen, 
"Pve an eye for loe-commanders 

Keener than for other men. 

"Yonder fellow hurrying forward — 
See him through the leafy trees 
When the branches lift their foliage 
To the beating of the breeze — 

"Do you see him? That is Frazer, 
Brave and noble-hearted man. 
Draw on him, for friends are bleeding, 
Dying yonder in the van." 

Scarce had Morgan ceased from speaking 
Bright a leveled musket shone, 

But its roar was lost in mingling 
With the battle's roar and groan. 

And a soldier with a tear-dimmed eye 

And empty smoking gun, 
Turned away from fallen Frazer — 

For the deed was done. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 71 



IN CAMP. 



Sing the old songs over, boys, 

Sing them as they were sung 
When Marion's men like specters moved, 

The moonlit woods among: 
Sing them as they were sung, boya, 

In days of "Old lang syne," 
On deck beneath the Stars and Stripes, 

Above the foaming brine. 



Tell those stories over, boys, 

The stories that were told 
When Freedom's cheers and cannon-smoke 

Above our nation rolled; 
Tell them with a tear, boys, 

And let the old world know 
That we're as true as were the boys. 

Who told them long ago. 



Load your rifles well, my boys, 

Be ready once again; 
God and our fathers did for us 

What shall not be in vain; 
For we will do as they, boys, 

And let our country's stars 
Throw out the light that Heaven gave 

As guerdon for those wars. 



72 rOEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 



So do whate'er you can, boys; 

Tho' fallen in the fray, 
Our KpiritH in the souls of men 

Shall live for many a day; 
And when the years have passed, boys, 

And silence reigns once more. 
The world shall know Ihat wo have done 

As did the boys of yore. 

Yes, sing the old songs over, boys, 

Sing them as thoy were sung 
When Marion's men like specters moved 

The moonlit woods among; 
Sing them as Ihey were sunj^, boys, 

In days of "Old lang syno," 
On deck beneath the Stars and Stripes, 

Above the foaming brine. 



MOULTRIE. 



There's Peter, the; tartar, and Carnplx'll, tho martyr. 

The martyr that's going to l)o, 
With cannon and pistol aboard of the Bristol, 

A league and a half out at sea; 
There are thirty-nine more lying just off the 
shore — 

Cornwallis and Clinton, I vow! 
His Majesty's fleet doesn't mean to retreat; 

The British are out for a row. 



POEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 73 

What's that high aloof that is dotting each roof 

AcrosB in the quaint rebel town? 
'Tis the Charleston folk all v/atching for smoke 

From the dark muzzled cannon that frown. 
Now pray, sir, and what on thai island sits squat 

Beneath that ten square yards of flannel? 
'Tis a yankee ramshackle the British must tackio 

Before they get into the channol 

"Palmetto an' sand! How long will that stand!" 

Said Sir Peter, laughing at danger. 
Then out flew the sail and up came the gale 

And down went the fleet on the stranger. 
And now high aloof on steeple and roof, 

The people shift round ill at ease; 
They're watching the flannel down there by the 
channel 

As it flutters and sways in the breeze. 

"Here's twenty to one that they won't fire a gun," 

Said Morris commanding the Bristol. 
"If the thirty and nine should fall out of line, 

I'd capture that fort with a pistol." 
Mr. Captain, go slow. I guess you don't know. 

If you've some misgivings just mind them. 
You'd better beware of those silent guns there; 

There are thirty grim gunners behind them. 

There's Moultrie a-smoking and Marion joking 

And Motte squinting over a gun. 
And now all is ready. "Be careful and steady." 

'Tis Moultrie calls out, "Number one!" 



74 i'OEMS OF WAR AND PATRIOTISM 

A blue fimoUe uproHc. 'TIs God only knows 

The fear and Ihe joy of the people. 
A curse and a prayer go out on the air 

With the shouts from each housetop and steeple. 

There's a streak and a speck; then a squabble on 
deck. 

Who's ready for jokes out there now? 
They are veering the sail, sec her list in the gale 

As (he cannon-ball whirls 'cross her bow! 
There's Peter, the tartar, and Campbell, the martyr, 

The martyr that's going to be, 
With cannon and pistol aboard of the Bristol 

Three fourths of a mile out at sea; 

The thirty and nine arc drawn up in line, 

And now they're beginning the sport. 
Will they make it hot for Moultrie and Motte 

And the rest of the Yanks in the fort? 
Oh no! They're as cool as frogs in a pool — 

Cool headed in spite of the shot. 
Tho' their faces are wot with trictliles of sweat, 

'Tis the sun that's making it hot. 

By the dozen and score the cannon-balls pour 

From the three-hundred guns of the ships. 
The llannel's gone down and the folk of the town 

In anguish aio gnawing their lips. 
Then Jasper, says he, "Our flag is down. See! 

Th(i staff's biok«'n off and 'tis lying 
Like some dirty rag. Now (hat is our flag, 

And I guess it had better be flying." 



I'OKMS Ol' WAR AND rATRIOTISM 7.1 

Then lip to Uio top of tho wall, then a drop — 

The llunnel and .laHper benlde it. 
In Hpite of the hiud tliat in ahiKid at hin head, 

The flag's In Its place. Jasper tied It. 
"Now," HayR Moultrie, the colonel, "Doho 'vm out 
the et(!rnal 

Hell-flr«;. Keep cool and go hIow. 
8tep back, nunilxu- one. Let inc rii/^lit that gun. 

'i'hat'H her! Touch her off. Let her go." 

There's Joy in the town. A raast has gone down. 

And yonder a bulwark 1h Hhattenid. 
There are rudder pontu out, and Ihe KhlpH drift 
about. 

His MajcHty's fleet will be scattered. 
Lord Campbell 1h wound<!d; Sir I*<it<i'H rlurnb- 
founded. 

And Morris himself has met harm; 
Hut he's thankful inntead of lacking a head, 

He's only in n(;(;(l of an arm. 

'Tls the close of the day and the end of th<f fray. 

A sad, sorry remnant of fleet 
Is fading from slKht in the gloom of th(! night. 

Sir I*et(ir has met with dcf<!at. 
Now the moon's looking down on the quaint nibel 
town. 

And the hearts of th(5 people b(;at high 
As they hear Moultrie's gun proclaim who ban wow 

In its final and savage "Good-by." 



Translations 



THE RICH PRINCE. 



Praised by many for their countries and their 

countries' worth and all 
Sat many German princes once in Worms' Imperial 

Hall. 

"Lordly," said the Prince of Saxon, "is my land 

and much its worth. 
Silver hedges all its mountains; 'tis the treasure 

ground of earth." 

"See my land in plenteous fulness," said the Elec- 
tor of the Rhine, 

"Golden cities in the valleys, on the mountains 
gushing wine." 

"Mighty states and wealthy convents," Ludwig, 

Lord of Bairn replied, 
"Make me equal to the richest, make me worthy of 

your pride." 

Eberhard, beloved Lord of Wurtemberg arose, 
"My land has smaller cities and no mines in it 
repose. 

'Yet it holds one treasure hidden in the wilderness 

so great; 
I live in peace and harmony tor ne one bears me 

hate." 



80 TRANSLATIONS 

Then said the Lords of Saxon, and of Bairn, and of 

the Rhine, 
"O Count, thou art the richest; would thy wealth 

were mine." 

— From the German of Kerner. 



THE GLOVE. 



In his museum sat the king, 
And around him in a ring 

Sat the courtiers, while above 
Ladies decked in flowers complete, 
Lovers lounging at their feet, 

Talked of love. 

Soon his Highness gave the word. 
Not a person spoke or stirred. 

Iron doors swung open, then, 
Seeming conscious of his worth 
Strode a fearless lion forth 

From his den. 

And again his Majesty 

Waved his jeweled hand, and see! 

Wildly rushed the keeper back. 
Wildly as the passing wind; 
Turned he not to see behind 

The tiger on his track. 

Suddenly the tiger turned 
And his eyes like jewels burned 
In their glare: 



TRANSLATIONS 81 

Lashed his tail upon the ground; 
Fearful growl was echoed round — 
Stood the lion there. 



Then, again, the Monarch spoke, 
And, as a double door did ope. 

Far out into the ring two leopards sprang. 
And eager for the fray 
The tiger reached without delay 

And on him fell with ugly claw and fang. 

Then moved the lion, and with mighty roar 
Drove back the leopards toward the door 

From whence they came. 
The tiger crouched to spring 
The others guarding did the self-same thing; 

And each prepared to play the bloody game. 

Then all was still below and still above. 
Presently a lady dropped her glove, 

It fell and lay — 
The tiger glowering fiercely on one side. 
The lion watching in his cunning pride. 

The glove midway. 

The lady sought her lover in a plight, 
And said in mocking tones, "Sir Knight, 

Dost thou still love 
Even as thou late hast said, 
I will thee surely wed, 

But bring my glove." 
6 



82 TRANSLATIONS 

Scarce had her lover heard 
Her latest mocking word 

When, lo! he sprang 
And snatched the fallen glove 
While loudly from above 

His praises rang. 

Back from the jaws of death 
Breathing a hero's breath 

Sought he his place. 
Once there he threw the glove 
Brought for his lady-love 

Full in her face. 
"Madam, your thanks pray spare." 
With that he left her there. 

— From the German of Schiller. 



BELSHAZZAR. 



'Twas midnight's hour and brightly shone 

The stars o'er peaceful Babylon, 

Peaceful — save for the muffled tread 

Of merry feet where the board was spread; 

For revelers hid by the palace wall 
Made merry the night in the kingly hall. 
There was the gleam of a splendor fine, 
There was the gush of the ruby wine; 

The klink of goblet was mingled there 

With the laughter that rose on the perfumed air. 

And the King Belshazzar forgot his fear 

And caught the mirth with a joyful ear, 



TRANSLATIONS 83 

And deeper drank of the sparkling wine 
With drunken curses to Him Divine. 
"Bring in the goblets." A servant heard 
And hastily answered the kingly word. 

With sacred vessels and cups of gold 
Used in Jehovah's temple of old — 
The cups were filled, and the King was first 
To pollute the vessel by lips accursed. 

He held the goblet high over all. 
And his voice rose loud in the gilded hall — 
"Jehovah, I scorn Thee with Thy throne. 
I am the King of Babylon." 

Scarce had the sound of his menace died 
When fear supplanted his drunken pride. 
And a silence fell as if the breath 
Of the living were snatched by the hand of death. 

And see, Ah see! In the silent hall 
A noiseless hand is upon the wall. 
And behind it streams a message dire 
In letters agleam like tongues of fire. 

And the king sat motionless in his place 
With trembling limbs and palled face; 
And not a sign or audible sound 
Broke from the courtiers gathered 'round. 

The subtlest magi gave no sign — 
In vain they scanned the gleaming line; 
The hand of God defied their power. 
Belshazzar died at the midnight hour. 

— From the German of Heine. 



Miscellaneous Poems 



A PEACEABLE DOG. 



He's the only peaceable dog in town, 
You never catch him runnin' 'roun'; 
He never barks when you're goin' by, 
Or ever even winks his eye; 
Just sets there lookin' up at the sky. 
But wait, I'll tell you the reason why, 
By'm by. 

He's a shapely fellow, large and stout,- 
An' he rests on a long tail sticking out 
A foot or more astern of him. 
His name is — well, I call him Jim; 
But he doesn't hear me or know I'm nigh; 
Just wait, I'll tell you the reason why, 
By'm by. 

He never wags his tail at boys. 
Or starts at any sudden noise, 
Won't chase the cows or do a thing 
But hold to a little iron ring, 
While curs of all sorts saunter by: 
An' now I'll tell you the reason why 

This dog won't bark or chase the cows; 
An' why he's never mixed in rows. 
But tends to business night an' day; 
A dog that can't be dogged away. 
Because — because — I'm sorry I 
Must say he's made of iron, that's why. 



88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

SATAN. 



Guess old Satan's rather sly, 
Knows just when you're comin' by; 
Sits there in his temple door 
Catchin' victims by the score; 
Always puts his bright side out 
Same as you an' I, no doubt. 

Guess old Satan's rather sly — 
Spider watchin' for a fly, 
With his thin an' gauzy trap 
Grabbin' folks at each mishap; 
With a sweet an' cunnin' smile 
Hidin' nature all the while. 

Guess old Satan's on his job, 
Never idle — on the bob — 
Ramblin' up an' down creation 
Claimin' most of every nation, 
Ownin' some you'd little wot. 
Claimin' you as like as not. 

Seems as if old Satan knows 
How to please his strongest foes. 
Seems as if he's creepin' in 
Any way to make us sin. 
Don't care what he makes us do 
So he gets us 'fore we're through. 

Guess he's seldom in the lurch. 
Even when he goes to church. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 8y 

For, dear sir, 'twixt me an' you, 
Guess he'll somehow find a pew; 
Some one's sure to grasp his hand, 
Shoutin' for the promised land. 

Satan's always in disguise, • 
Sometimes has a woman's eyes, 
Prates in sanctimonious bits, 
" 'Bout some lying hypocrites." 
Says he's "Walkin' in the light." 
O, the Devil's out of sight! 



AS IT SEEMS. 



Seems to me 't's a foolish thing 
Wearin' 'round a diamon' ring; 
Holdin' up yer finger so 
As to make a flashy show; 
Makin' paupers sigh an' grieve, 
'Couragin' poor folks to thieve. 

Seems to me 'taint jest the way, 
Struttin' 'round from day to day, 
Jinglin' cash an' lookin' wise, 
Makin' silly goo-goo eyes, 
Watchin' girls at ev'ry move, 
Winnin' more'n a dozen's love. 

Guess man wa'n't put on the earth 
To go pratin' 'bout his birth. 



90 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Braggin' 'bout his pedigree, 
Wond'rin' what folks think o' me 
Standin' on his gran'dad's fame, 
Carryin' 'round a great big name. 

'Pears a king is jest a man; 
So's a darkey. Little tan 
Don't make such a diff'rence, tho' 
Some folks like to make it so; 
Don't divide the human race 
Simple color of the face. 

Guess we all were born to live. 
Born to suffer an' forgive; 
Not to strut in pompous show 
Few way up an' crowd down low; 
Guess the Lord don't like the few 
Any more'n the Lord likes you. 



REPLY TO PAT'S LOVE LETTER. 



Patrick Dolin Esq. 

In Haste. 
Shure Pat an' Oi've read the last lether yez writ. 
An' its feelin' Oi am thet yer lyin' a bit. 
Its Helen mesilf as is writin' ye see; 
Ach, ye spalpeen, fer what is yez writin' ter me? 
Oi've resaved jest sich lethers as thet wan before, 
Me patience is wore out a radin' thim o'er. 
Why Patrick, ye jade, Oi'm amazed at the start 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 91 

To think thet the loikes av yersilf wants me heart. 
Don't yez know then Oi'm married? Confess to the 

praste, 
Go ax him to pardon yer sins, wicked baste — 
Jest tell him yez done the dark dade av yer loife 
A-writin' schwate notes to Tom Calligan's woife. 
An' thin, jest suppose Oi tauld Tom thet yez wrote 
An' jest fer the mischief should gave him the note! 
Ach sor, Oi belave 'twould be sarvin' yez roight, — 
Ye'd have an impediment thin on yer soight; 
He'd tache ye at wanst what a fool yez have bin 
In callin' me "Shwateheart" an' "Darlint Helen." 

An' there's Bridget McCregan, yez knows what yez 

said, 
Thet fer love av yerself she is mighty noigh dead — 
Yez had bether go back to the praste agin, Pat, 
An' say yev bin talkin' a bit through yer hat. 
Fer Bridget has shwore thet she'd spit in yer face 
If ever yez dare to went down to her place. 
An' av Biddy O'Farrel, 'it's a loi what yez say; 
Tis "Moike Me Young Shwateheart," she's singin' 

to-day, 
Not "Patrick Me Darlin'," as was what yez wrote 
In yer horrid, indacent, insultin' auld note. 
So kape mum ye rake if yez values yer loife, — 
Yer sacret advoiser, 

TOM CALLIGAN'S WOIFE. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

POVERTY. 



Life to some is winter time 

Round a cold and cheerless hearth. 
Poverty their only crime — 

Makes a prison of the earth. 
Love alone's their only boon — 

Love for those that claim their care; 
Rosy faces pinched so soon 

By a scanty fare. 

See the children by the door! 

Scarce a toy to make them glad; 
Busy tho' they live so poor — 

Smiling tho' they feel so sad. 
How it wrings the honest heart 

In the father's toil-worn breast, 
That his efforts scarce impart 

What the Lord possessed. 

Mother, too, with tearful eye 

Smiling on each little one, 
Bravely smothers down the sigh 

Daily living on. 
Scrimping to the utmost end — 

Fingers worn and eyes grown dim — 
Bloom of cheek had she to lend 

Freedom, too, to them. 

Old and bent before her day — 
Where is now that loving one? 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 93 

And the father thin and gray, 

Ah! He, too, is gone. 
E'en the little ones that played 

Round the cheerless prison door. 
Wherein have those dear ones strayed 

That I see them smile no more? 

Them existence little gave — 

Half the joys of life unknown. 
Can a dark and silent grave 

For such misery atone? 
No. Ah, no. If fortitude 

Were not virtue fit for Heaven, 
Such a cup had ne'er been brewed 

Neither such a sentence given. 



ADVICE. 

If you've something to say, why say 

Don't put it off another day 

Out with it, and then 

Keep quiet. Don't say it over again. 

You've been heard or you never will be on that 

score 
Let some one else talk. Don't talk any more. 
That's what I say. 

If you've something to pay 

Go pay it. Delay 

Steals your honor. Don't think 



94 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

'Tis better to part with your friends than your 

chink. 
You've been trusted and may be again 
When j^ou'll need a friend more than you nefeded 

him then. 
Let some other man be the rascaL You pay. 

If you've something to give, 
Why, give it. Don't live 
A selfish old miser. There's plenty to do, 
And God didn't create the world just for you. 
And you weren't born just to grovel and save 
And drop the whole thing at the mouth of the 
grave. 
Let some other man be the miser. You give. 

If you've something to do, just do. 
Thousands of others are toiling for you. 
The Savior wasn't too good to work — 
And virtue is vice if her motto is shirk. 
There's a port to be reached before you get through 
With the voyage of life. Be one of the crew. 
Let some other man do the shirking. Not you. 



AN EPISTLE TO I V. 



How sweet U R my precious 1 ! 

Your I's R soft & blue, 
UR2XLNT2 shun; 

I love no 1 but U. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 95 

X Q's me if I am 2 free 

& B my love D vine. 
I can't X plain till U I C 

O dear E I V mine. 



I've broken off with B A trice, > 

& jilted K T 2 ; ; 

So dear E do not take amiss 
The love I O 2 U. j 

I 

1 
I've thought of U so many X j 

B 4 I dared 2 write; I 

I can't X press my thoughts in rhymes 

So I'll C U 2 night. ] 



I have a ? 2 ask U 

& beg U 2 B lieve 
It is your heart & hand I sue 

Nor will I U D ceive. 



O dear E, U R number 1; 

With U I'd B in bliss. 
4 U & U alone I'll shun 

K T & B A trice. 



O Dear, U R my I V, 

Just think 1 ce more of this! 
2 U I O my joy 2 B 

& U I long 2 kiss. 



96 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

P. S. Now if U can't B home 2 night 
B sure 2 drop a , 

& just X plain if I've a right 
2 call U I V mine. 



THE PARSON'S VISIT. 



"Mercy on us! Here comes Elder Fife. 
I never saw^ the likes in all my life; 
Now ain't this fine! Oh, such a looking place! 
I'll never dare to look him in the face 
Again at church. Plague take the pesky luck, 
If he sits down I'll wager he'll get stuck. 
Come, Susan, help me shove this table back — 
Jane, hang those hats and coats up on the rack. 
Now see the ashes all around the floor — 
Good gracious, is he knocking on the door? 
Well, Sade, can't you do anything at all? 
"Wrap Jimmy up in that old piece of shawl 
And hustle round and find some cleaner clothes. 
Oh, Linda, do come here and wipe your nose. 
My goodness! Yes, he's coming through the gate, 
He's goin' to call on us as sure as fate. 
I wish he'd stay at home. Now ain't this fine — 
But I don't care — It ain't no fault of mine — 
You pesky girls might hurry up your work. 
But that is it — you only try to shirk." 

*'Good gracious, ma, the Preacher's on a run, 
I wonder what new mischief has begun!" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 97 

"Well, goodness gracious, pick that chair up. Scat! 
For twenty cents I'd kill that horrid cat. 
Now see those broken dishes on the floor." 
(Rat-tat — The Parson bounced right through the 
door). 

"Why, Elder Fife, what's wrong, I pray, who's sick? 
Come hurry, time is precious, tell me quick — 
What makes you stand and gasp so out of breath? 
You're wild with fright and even pale as death." 
Out gasped the preacher, "Madam, I desire 
To lend a hand in putting out the fire." 

"What fire, when, where, how, who. 
Oh tell us quick and will help them too." 

"Why here good woman; what's this noise about? 
I thought 'twas fire that you were putting out — 
I came some twenty rods out of my way, 
But I am glad 'tis nothing, so good-day." 



A WAG'S LAST JOKE. 



Look here, I'll tell you 'bout the wag 

Whose stock of fun began to lag; 

Who, just to play a little trick. 

Was taken ill and grew so sick 

He couldn't elevate his head 

Above the pillow of his bed. 

His tongue refused to let him talk. 

His legs were cramped too much to walk, 

His arms drew up, his head drew back, 

7 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

His very breath grew faint and slack; 
His jaws were set, besides 'twas clear 
An earthquake couldn't make him hear. 
Then thought he as he donned a frown, 
"For once I've got the doctors down." 

"I'll stake my reputation that 
'Old Jones' and 'Perk' will have a chat 

And sum up a diagnosis 

And emphasize paralysis, 

With signs of lockjaw when they fail 

To make me drink a patent-pail 

Of water with a gross of pills 

And quinine in a dozen quills. 

Perhaps they'll have a short debate 

Before they leave me to my fate." 

Then down came Jones post-haste, full speed, 

With rattling gig and foaming steed, — 

Sprang from the buggy to the door. 

Ran in to look the patient o'er. 

He came, he saw, and there wag lay — 

Distorted lump of human clay. 
"Send down for Perk. I fear my skill 

May prove too clumsy for this ill." 

Then up came Perk. Jones, looking wise, 

With tinge of sadness in his eyes, 

Then shook his head. Perk shook his too — 
"I fear his earthly course is through." 
"Yes, yes; but let us not despair; 

A council is but just and fair." 
"Now first, by scientific laws, 

Let's try to figure out the cause 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 99 

Of this distortion." Jones replied, 
"I think it's an abscess in his side." 

Said Perk, "I think he's in a spasm. 

I've heard before he sometimes has 'em." 
"Yes, yes," said Jones, "of course he is. 

But what has caused it? That's the biz. 

I say it's an abscess." "Be it so, 

You saw him first and ought to know." 

* « « * )X id 

When Perk and Jones returned alack. 

Poor wag still lay upon his back, 

Or rather on his heels and head. 

His body didn't touch the bed. 

He couldn't hear a word 'twas said, 

But grinned when Perk pronounced him dead. 

He little thought of coming harm. 

Although he smelled the chloroform. 

And more than that, he never knew 

Those doctors cut him twice in two. 



HYMN TO NIAGARA. 



I catch thy gleam 
Shimmering amid a thousand summer leaflets, 
What peals of thunder rend the quiet air! 

Nature's grandest thought, 
Her noblest, God-inspiring epic, writ 
With pen fresh borrowed from the Infinite, 
Is traced upon thy rainbow-crowned brow, 

Niagara ! 



100 MISCELI.ANEIOUS POKMS 

All the world, 
Kings, piincea, statcKmcn, come to kneel 
In humble suppliance bfsfore thy Hhrlne 

Of grandeur. 

O! what mind, 
What human prodigy of ntrc^ngth could plot 
The Hclieme of enipiro liHlening here within 
The sound of thy great footfall! 

What hope or grief, 
Though Hwelling high within the breast of man, 
Dare lift its puny voice in thy great presence. 

O, Niagara! 

When the stars of morning 
Sang together, and lirst I he (light of time 
Began, rolled up in majesty to Heaven 

Thy deep-toned anthem. 

When the last trump 
Shall sound, and the round earth 
Moves slowly Ui rough the darkness, 
Still thy great hymn of death 

Shall thunder. 

But thy course 
Must have an ending. And thy depths. 
Naked and yawning like a sepulcher. 
In that last pale light shall lie 

Revealed. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 101 

Man's eye 
Shall witness it. Even man. 
The puny victim of an instant's rage, 
From the shining pillarn of that brighter world 
Shall look on thee in thy vast ruin. 

Methinks thou knowest this, 
Else why so hasten? What Heaven-sent messenger, 
What angel wing, brushing thy moonlit wave. 
Has whispered thee thy fate, thy awful doom, 

Niagara? 



THE STORK. 



We can live tho' the robin play false or forget 

His last summer's home, and remain 
In the south while the green northern meadows are 
wet 

With the drops of the warm summer rain. 
We can live and be happy tho' up on the hill 

We listen in vain for the thrush 
Whose song used to float with the sound of the rill 

Down the vale with a musical gush. 



We can live on and still find a measure of mirth 

Tho' never a bluebird we see — 
Tho' the oriole goes to the end of the earth 

From his old summer home in yon tree. 



102 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

We can forfeit their beauty, their wiles, and their 
trills, 
If fate e'er ordaineth it so; 
Tho' we'd miss their sweet songs floating down 
from the hills. 
Gushing up from the valleys below. 

But there's one, without song, without beauty, just 
one — 

The last but not least of the race. 
In magic he beats all the birds 'neath the sun; 

His fame hides his sad lack of grace. 
'Tis this bird on whom all the nations depend 

For support in their unfinished work. 
So take all the brilliants and songsters, but send 

Us, the homely and tuneless old stork. 



QUOITS. 

"Pitch them high, fling them far, ah, that will not 

do: 
Your elbow clings close to your side and the shoe 
Wabbles Vound in the air. Ha, 'tis ten feet away. 
Unpracticed? I guess so. Now do as I say. 
Put your thumb alongside the calk at the toe. 
And your fingers down here; there, see that, just 

so. 
Now swing your arm free from your side, but 

beware 
That you loosen your grip when 'tis time. Now 

look there ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 103 

You're as awkward as hogs on a mill-pond. Now 

look, 
I'll fling you a ringer as sleek as a book. 
See see ! No, not quite, but 'tis close all the same. 
If you wish, for your sake, we'll play out a short 

game, 
And I'll teach you to throw at least one fair shoe 
Ere I pile up the ringers (as well I can do) 
To close up the game." 



The greenhorn agreed and picked up the old shoe 
With his finger and thumb near the calk at the toe. 
"Why, Cap, is that what I told you to do? 
I'll bet you ten dollars I'll skunk," and the chink 
Rattled loud in his purse; and he gave a sly wink 
At the crowd gathered round. "I'm agreed, put it 

up," 
And each rolled his ten in the referee's cup. 
"Give me first?" said the greenhorn. "Yes, four if 

you choose." 
And the bragman gave over the two other shoes. 
Then the greenhorn graced up, swung his arm, and 

that swing 
Brought the shoe neatly down on the stake with 

a ring, 
While the bragman's right eye opened up just a 

bit 
As he murmured, "Go on, 'twas but a chance hit." 
And the greenhorn, this time, swung his other 

hand back, 
"A left-hander," he said, as the shoe in the track 



104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Of the first lightly fell. Then the brag's other eye 
Looked more wild than the first, and he heaved a 

deep sigh 
As he saw the last shoe close round that blamed 

stake ; 
And four rods away he muttered, "A fake." 



IN CHURCH. 



I took a pew in the way-back end 

Of a church in the avenue; 
'Twas good as any they had to lend — 

The usher thought 'twould do; 
So 'twasn't my fault that I couldn't hear, 

And I couldn't help but see 
How great were folks in the farther tier 

Way down in front of me, 
As I sat way back in a way-back pew 

Of a church on a down-town avenue. 

I seemed to be in the frown of fate, 

For others came in soon. 
And the usher bowed, and church and state 

Both sipped from the old-time spoon, 
I sav; the smile that the church gave back 

For the gold that the state took out; 
'Tho' I couldn't hear, I had no lack 

In various sights about 
As I sat way back in a way-back pew 

Of a church on a down-town avenue. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 105 

Perhaps you know that it makes one feel 

A little hateful and gloomy, in spite 
Of all his power and Christian zeal 

To guide his thoughts aright, 
When he sits alone with nothing to do 

But listen to a droning sound 
And weary a vapory morning through 

Just trying to hear and looking 'round — 
From a place way back in a way-back pew 

Of a church on a down-town avenue, 

Perhaps you know that it makes one feel 

The presence of a mental qualm 
To sit and hear the rythmless squeal 

Of a tuneless, tortured psalm. 
When many and many a voice is there, 

If but some good old hymn were given, 
Could well inspire the stagnant air 

With music fit for Heaven. 
I felt all this in the way-back pew 

Of the church on the down-town avenue. 

There wasn't much of "heart to heart" 

In simple Christian grace 
Which such occasion would impart 

In some more humble place; 
Perhaps you think the fault's in me 

And all the rest of sweet accord. 
But when we meet in the world to be, 

I pledge my honest word. 
That I don't want a way-back pew 

In the church on Down-Town Avenue. 



108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

LIFE. 



A little child with life begun — 
Tho' all his care is having fun, 
Tho free to laugh and free to play, 
And dwell in bliss from day to day 
Tho' loved by her who gave him birth — 
The dearest being on the earth — 
Tho' taught by her his childish prayer, 
Tho' freed by her from every care, 
Yet there doth rise within his heart 
A growing longing to depart, 
A deep desire and many a plan 
To hasten toward the time of man. 



And when, alas, the flowing tide 
The days of youth and age divide. 
How pensive sits the aged man 
To muse on days when life began! 
How gladly does his memory track 
Those weary rounds of past life back! 
How he would joy a child to be 
And kneel again at mother's knee. 
And breathe that still remembered prayer, 
The one he learned in childhood there! 
But an unfathomable abyss, 
Between old age and childish bliss. 
Engulfs the joys of earlier years 
And lends but troubles, toil, and tears 
To him who launches on the tide 
And looks back from the farther side. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 107 

SPRING. 



I like spring, happy spring, so gay, 

When the melted snow doth run away, 

When we boarders look for cleaner rooms, J 

When the sweet arbutus buds and blooms j 

And young onions odorous and rare 

Do invite a smile from sheer despair. ■ 

Yes, I like the very gentle spring. ] 

It is then we hear the poet sing : 

As he climbs out on the garret roof j 

Gathering from the air his web and woof, j 
While his trills run on in tuneful blurr 
For the hapless, luckless editor. 

i 

And indeed, although I can't tell why, j 
There is something in the sunny sky, 

Something in the low and balmy breeze j 

Makes the prosiest man feel more at ease, ^ 

Makes the crank turn rhymster and to sing ; 

All he knows about the blessed spring. , 

Then the trout so juicy, yet so shy, j 

Nabs the fisher's artificial fly, j 

And the pickerel, gasping from the brook ; 

Scrapes acquaintance with the private cook, j 

While the "suckers," nothing strange to say, j 

Bite the best upon Election Day. | 

I 

Yes, the balmy, breezy, gliding spring i 
Gives us hints of what the summer'll bring — 



108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Bloom of colic on the apple bough, 
Eggs that hatch the germs of many a row, 
Melon-vines that make a strong appeal 
To the boys' propensities to steal. 

To the new-born season, hail, all hail! 

We revive the last-year's white-wash pail, 

And the dingy kitchen dons a smile 

Pure and white and fresh and clean, the while 

With bowed heads we scold and swear and cry 

With a pint of white-wash in each eye. 

So dear spring, pause not upon your way. 
May you zip along from March till May. 
Happy Nature kicking up her heels, 
Shows how funny every creature feels, 
And I, too, partake of her mad revels 
With the other winter-weary devils. 



HUNTING SONG. 



Business all agog now 

Shot-gun in the lead. 
Let the brook-trout swim about, 

Put away the reed; 
Moon comes up at midnight, 

Listen for the cock; 
Raccoon's in the corn-field 

Gnawing at the shock. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 109 

Circuses are over; 

Balmy evenings, too. 
Summer lovers look for covers — 

Warmer climes to woo. 
Frosts are on the arbor, 

Geese clank by in flocks, 
And the 'coon sits 'neath the moon 

Gnawing at the shocks. 

Summer bloom is over: 

Leaves begin to fade. 
Gentle breeze and vernal trees 

Have their exit made; 
And the season rolls around 

When we hear the cock 
Crow his warning of the morning 

While the 'coon is at the shock. 

Hazy Indian summer 

Blears the autumn light. 
Colder moon than shone in June 

Shines into the night. 
All hail to the season 

With the threadbare frock 
Bringing pleasure with its leisure 

While the 'coon sits at the shock. 



no MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
TO A CROW. 



All winter long I've wandered past the wood 

Where, when the summer leaves were swinging 
high, 

The happy ,song-birds poured a sweeter flood 
Of song from branches up against the sky. 



And now to pass when all the trees are bare 
And all the woodland wrapped in drifting snow, 

It makes me glad that in the frosty air 

I still can hear thy tuneless "Caw," thou crow; 



And see thy black wings flapping through the trees 
Where brighter ones have ceased to take their 
way; 

Indeed thy sable visage seems to ease 
My growing doubt of a returning May. 

And as thou passest on, me thinks I see 
The Tishbite in his holy raiment clad, 

By Cherith's side arise to welcome thee 
With signs that thou hast made a prophet glad. 



And thus thou mak'st me feel that everything 
Which God hath made to soar about the sky, 

E'en tho' 'tis borne upon a raven's wing. 
Is better fit for Heaven than such as I. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 111 

DESTINY. 



I stood at eve above the mighty waters, 
Upon a crag of wild Atlantic's shore; 

I heard far down, the endless war and thunder. 
The great waves falling, falling evermore. 

The western sky was tinged with sunset golden, 
And far adown the dark waves caught the glow, 

Returning homeward from their distant journey 
To dash and mingle on the rocks below. 

Bach life's a wave of time's tempestuous ocean; 

Each wave is destined for the distant shore; 
Beneath the crag, in heaven-lit splendor glowing. 

They are dashing, falling, falling evermore. 



IF. 



If I had what I do without 

I'd have a newer pair of shoes. 
I wouldn't have to go about 

Ashamed of tattered clothes; 
I wouldn't have to meet the frost 

Bare handed while the East grows red: 
I'd have a cap of meager cost 

To wear upon my headL-. 



1115 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

If I had what I do without, 

I'd have a little change in fare 
And risk the plagued, pesky gout 

And indigestion's share. 
I'd have a softer bed whereon 

To lay my weary head. 
I'd bid insomnia "begone," 

And slumber like the dead 

If 1 had what I do without, 

I'd have a bank account, and then 
I'd seek the street and lounge about 

With other gentlemen. 
I wouldn't have to fumble round 

To find a little dime or two, 
Then tell the milkman I had found 

The hole they rattled through. 



If I had what 1 haven't got, 

I'd have a dear good friend and rich — 
A wealthy second wife, I'm not 

Inclined to say just which. 
But ah, 'mongst all these things I lack 

I fear some wouldn't suit my taste. 
Just let me take these murmurings back, 

I'm sorry for my haste. 



If I had what I do without. 

There might be stripes along my clothes: 
And walls might fence me round about. 

And hired guards, who knows? 



MISCELLANEOUS POExMS 113 

The frosty morning air might be 
Denied just when the East grows red. 

I'm sure 'tis worth the cold to see 
The warm sun overhead. 

If I had what I do without, 

A conscience might be pricking me. 
And horrid dreams might put to rout 

E'en better company. 
I might go farther and fare worse 

Than staying en my homely fare. 
I might endure a lasting curse 

By being rid of care. 

If I had what I do without, 

My wealthy friend might turn some day. 
The lips I love might fret and pout 

Not smile my care away. 
My couch might be a couch of pain, 

Tho' soft, a death-bed, like as not. 
These things for which I've wished in vain. 

Thank God I haven't got. 



MAN'S INHERITANCE. 



Man claims of God's great gifts a share — 
A little portion of the air; 

A right to view the wondrous form | 

Of nature in its calm and storm; 

A right to hear creation's voice, \ 

And in its sweetness to rejoice. i 

8 I 



114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Man claims a share in all that's real — 
The right of knowledge; and to feel 
The touch of love within the soul, 
Which makes creation one great whole, 
Which binds the humble and the great, 
The rich and poor in common fate. 

Man claims, by virtue of his birth, 
A little portion of the earth; 
A little spot of sacred ground, 
Where years unnoted roll around, 
Where busy life hath ceased to be, 
In which to rest from sorrow free. 

Man claims — because to man 'twas given 
A home, beyond this earth, in heaven; 
A share in human brotherhood, 
Divinest of all human good; 
God gives, that man may hold in fee, 
A share in vast Eternity. 



DETERMINATION. 



Determination is the power that sways 
The hidden fortunes of our future days. 
Linked with our every hope is sheer despair 
If steadfast courage be not master there. 

No man e'er lived without a wish to claim 
The glory of a higher, nobler aim. 
But few there are prepared to pay the fee. 
Determination, courage, constancy. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 115 

Seek what you will but let each step be right, 
Be steadfast, work away with mind and might: 
Courage can work what nothing else hath wrought, 
And buy those things which wealth hath never 
bought. 

We wake not like the lark from happy dreams 
To rise on wings into the sun's bright beams, 
But climb a rugged mountain-path that leads 
To distant heights by dint of humble deeds. 

He, who still holds the highest place on earth, 
Rose step by step from low and humble birth. 
Constant in purpose, still determined, He 
Defied ignoble death on Calvary. 

And tho' He suffered, bled, and died, 'twas done. 
The glorious Cause for which He lived was won. 
Such the example which to us is given — 
Determination leads the way to Heaven. 



AN ENIGMA.* 



Enraptured with their pugs the ladies live 
Czarinas in the little realms they rule. 



♦Written on the fly-leaf of a book presented to 
the gentleman whose name will appear by reading 
the first letter of the first line, in connection with 
the second letter of the second line, third letter of 
the third line, etc. 



116 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

In ragged luxury the hoboes give 

A gracious smile to fellows of their school. 
And then when all the wise cling to the wise, 

And misery to misery is tied, 
It is not strange if poets should comprise 

A corporation chartered on the side. 
Indeed in finding some one of his kin 

A rhymster follows as all others do. 
Therefore I offer such as is within 

With all regards in love and friendship due 
To one who well deserves to read a better through. 



LOOK UP. 



Weary one, in your toilsome endeavor, 
Weak and faint by the long rugged way, 

Be of cheer, for some comfort comes ever 
To him who has learned how to pray. 

Look abroad, 'tis the desert doth bound you; 

Look down, and the arid earth's there; 
Look up, and a light falls around you. 

And a voice speaks in answer to prayer. 



Tho' the light is a ray dimly gleaming, 
Tho' the voice is a whisper at night, 

A beacon doth shine in its seeming, 
And the voice sounds a trumpet of might. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 117 

THE LANDMAN. 



A landman stood on the upper deck 

When the steamer left the port, 
And watched 'til the wharf was a distant specli 

And hugely enjoyed the sport. 

His spirit rose as the vessel ploughed 

Majestic on her way. 
And the happiest man of a happy crowd 

Looked out on the calm bright bay. 

And he thought: How tame is the dull gray shore 

So hateful grown to me; 
I'll tramp in the sand of the earth no more 

But sail on the boundless sea. 

He knew not that the sea was like 

The land in valley and hill, 
Nor that 'twas only a government dike 

That kept the bay so still. 

And when beyond the harbor bar 

The good ship met the gale, 
The landman's spirit sunk to par. 

His stomach 'gan to fail. 

The vessel heaved to the windward side, 

The good ship heaved to the lee: 
The landman catching the spirit, tried 

And heaved in the boundless sea. 



118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

He had no thought of the way he'd do 

Should the ship become a wreck; 
For the sickest man of a seasick crew 

Lay groaning on the deck. 

And he thought not much of the roaring sound. 

Or hard and reeling bed; 
Nor thought a thought of the merry-go-round 

Erected in his head. 

He didn't sigh for the storm to still 

Or beg for a mattressed berth; 
But prayed and prayed for a sandy hill 

On the breast of Mother Earth. 



TO A DAISY. 



Thou modest flower of kindred race 
With her so loved across the sea, 

The same sweet modesty and grace 
Appear in thee. 

Here, too, thou mak'st a happier spring, 
Thou mock'ry of the day and night: 

The pure sky in thy outer ring 
Set with a star's soft light. 

Thou still retainest the loveliness 
Seen by the Scottish Bard when he 

Moved by the thought of sore distress, 
Addressed his song to thee. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 119 

That tender song, O modest flower, 

Has added splendor to thy name. 
And thou hast set thy latent power 

Upon the poet's fame. 

Tho' far away and long ago 

That daisy faded, and the earth 
Upon whose breast she sought to grow 

Obscured her modest worth, 

And tho' the earth hath oped, and he 
Who saw the floweret cease to bloom 

Hath stepped Into Eternity 
Beyond the tomb, 

His song still echoes in the air, 

And in thy azure bell I trace 
A combination strange and rare — 

A tuneful grace. 



MOTHER, WHERE ARE YOU? 



"Mother, where are you?" O many a night 
Have I come from the school with a footstep so 

light 
That mother scarce heard my soft tread on the 

floor. 
As sewing and thinking she sat by the door 
And only the clock ticked aloud on the wall 
To mingle its noise with the sound of my call, 
"Mother, where are you?" 



120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

"Mother, where are you?" How fondly a boy 
Sees mother's sweet face all aglow with a joy; 
How gladly he sees the semblance of care 
Chased away from her face by the smile which 

flits there, 
For gladly a mother does welcome annoy 
When it comes back at night in the form of a boy, 
With, "Mother, where are you?" 

'Mother, where are you?" — Tho' I have grown old 
And the summer of life has grown cloudy and cold, 
In dreams I return from the school as of yore 
And step softly in at the wide-open door 
And cautiously look, but no mother is there. 
And my once happy call faintly dies on the air, 
"Mother, where are you?" 



THANKSGIVING. 



Thanks for the invitation brought by thee, 

Thou R. F. D. 

I will prepare 

By fast to day, and take a real old square 

To-morrow. Goose and duck 

And turkey; thanks for my good luck, 

Thou bill of fare! 

I'm glad there'll be no bill to pay down there. 

I'll stuff myself with that stuffed turkey; now 
What is this? Well, well, I vow, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 121 

Roast pig; thanks, I will eat 

No small chunk of roast pig, delicious meat; 

Thanks, that salt-pork won't come; 

I sometimes get a slice of that at home. 

My sense of taste is sharpened by the thought 

Of oysters which my generous friend has bought; 

I will eat some — 

Thanks that this note says, "Now please come." 

What else — now let me see — 

Why pumpkin-pie, of course — thanks, if there be 

I'll eat some, 'tis my favorite pie. 

And as for cake, well, I'll stand by 

Most anything like cake. 

I won't deny myself for stomach's sake. 

Thanks to my appetite. I'm hungry now. 

But I shall wait till dinner-time some how. 



ALICE BROWN. 



Said Charlie Ford to me 

When I met him t'other day, 
"Old boy, I'm glad to see you. 

How are you anyway? 
And how is everybody 

In the dear old town. 
And how's the dearest body, 

My old sweetheart, Alice Brown?" 

Said I to Charlie Ford 
When I met him t'other day, 



122 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

"I've been growing somewhat better 

Since you went away." 
And then his smile departed 

And he called up a frown. 
"But how is everybody 

Including Alice Brown?" 

Then I laughed, an' said I, 

"Since you went West 
A half a dozen fledgings 

Have vanished from the nest, 
Still there's billing and there's cooing 

In the dear old town. 
But the time has gone for wooing 

Your old sweetheart, Alice Brown. 

"But why are you pale? 

Has your sweetheart been untrue? 
Did ever Alice Brown 
Swear fidelity to you?" 
"Well, no, not that much, 
But when I went away, 
1 had a fond delusion 
That she might some day." 

And then said I to Charlie, 
"I'm sorry, but you know 
Sweet Alice wedded one she loved 
Some twelve months ago." 
"Married," he gasped, "she, married? 

I dare say to some coot — " 
"A little softer, Charlie, 

You're talking to the brute." 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 12H 

TO A SHEET OF PAPER. 



What might have been thy future state 

A state of deep regret — 
Is worthy of a short debate 

Since that we two have met. 

Some novelist perchance had spied 
Thy bosom smooth and white, 

And in his desperation tried 
Some thrilling tale to write. 

The slums of London might have been 

Depicted on thy page, 
With here and there a graphic scene 

Of some forgotten age. 

And here upon this very line 

Might be a fervent kiss: 
On this one several hugs, and nine 

Or ten sweet words on this. 

And here the hero's footsteps go. 

The villain's track is here. 
He sneaks by day and night, I trow 

For many a weary year. 

Across 

lots 

comes 

the 

heroine 



lU MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

The villain's brought to bay 
And dark and dismal night is seen 
Just dappling into day. 

I fancy now the author's mood 

As o'er thee he doth lean. 
These lines are stained by pools of blood 

With clots of gore between. 

And here upon thy closing page 
The marriage vows would be; 

And here a boy five years of age, 
And here a girl of three. 

And here a happy seaside cot 
Where earth and Heaven blend. 

On this line sorrows are forgot! 
While this one reads, "THE END." 

And then the printer would have said 

Such pretty things of thee 
That everybody would have read. 

Now none will read but me. 



ST. NICHOLAS. 



In the grim old days of long ago, 
When the earth was new and odd, 

There journeyed a man from the land of snow 
To the silent land of Nod. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 125 

And he rode by night in the howling blast, 
And none were there who rode so fast. 
Not one in the land of Nod. 



He wore a coat from the Arctic fox, 

A cap from the Polar bear. 
And carried a mammoth dry-goods box 

Of the things he had to spare; 
And he came like the wind when the wind comes 

fast. 
And he went like the wind when the wind goes 
past, 

All over the land of Nod. 



From cabin door to castle-wall 

He held his rapid way, 
Nor missed but one on his nightly call 

Through Nod in his reindeer sleigh. 
That one was a curious prying lad 
Who tried to see what the traveler had 

As he sped through the land of Nod. 



Alas, the sled flew on so fast 1 

He couldn't see a thing \ 

But a broad horned reindeer foaming past, 1 
Though he heard the sleigh-bells ring — 

A thousand bells or more were there i 

Chiming on in the frosty air j 
That covered the land of Nod. 



126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Behold the children all were glad 
When morning dawned in Nod, 

All but one and he was sad — 
'Twas very strange and odd. 

His stocking hung by the fireplace, 

And large tears stole adown his face, 

And fell on the land of Nod. 

There wasn't a thing in either one 

Of those long gaping hose; 
It paid him well for what he'd done. 

For everybody knows 
St. Nicholas won't give a toy 
To any curious prying boy 

That lives in the land of Nod. 



EAGLE EYE. 



It isn't the eagle's eye that makes 

The eagle see so far away, 
'Tis but the height the eagle takes 

At dawning of the day. 
For, did he only perch and sit 

On a bush in a dark and cheerless wood, 
The great broad earth — would he know of it? 

I don't see how he could. 

He's not content to think how high 

'Tis possible to go, 
But finds a home in the airy sky 

And looks on the earth below; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 127 \ 

■j 

For clouds don't look so dull and drear i 

When seen from the upper side, ] 

As when they hover 'round him here | 

In a forest dark and wide. 

While this is true of the flying king, j 

Of a walking man 'tis true. ; 

He, too, may rise on as strong a wing ; 

From the wood he's groping through. ^ 
And too, by dint of his own desire, 

By a struggle of mind and might, \ 

He may ere the sun go down, acquire I 

A view from the mountain height. i 



IN OCTOBER. 



A dusty road adown a hillside wending; 

A farm-house hidden 'neath huge apple-trees. 
Whose lusty boughs with luscious fruit are 
bending. 

The haunt of children and the busy bees. 

A sluggish brook, wandering 'mid grass and aedge, 
Divides the meadow from the whispering corn, 

Where yellow pumpkins cling about its edge. 
Like luscious fruits on rim of plenty's horn. 

The piping quail glides through the stubble sere, 
Searching the rusty heads of ripened grain. 

The last of all, the gleaners of the year. 
Finds competence for him and gleans it o'er 
again. 



128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

The brown old barn, away on yonder hill, 
Has stood the sun and storms of forty years. 

It is the farmer's ever-ready till — 
'Tis crammed to bursting with the ripened ears. 

A crowd of noisy swallows fill the air 
About the empty nests beneath the eve; 

They meditate a flight to lands more fair, 
Yet dread their happy summer home to leave. 

There's one more garrulous than all the rest, 
Clinging near by her happy childhood home, 

Declares that's where she'll build her future nest, 
When v/inter storms are o'er and spring has 
come. 

A thought of sadness fills the distant skies, 
Or dwells amid the yellowing forest leaves; 

Dame Nature sheds a tear when Summer dies. 
Though new-born Autumn wakes and smiles 
and breathes. 

A deep, sweet sadness, dearer far than joy, 
The sunny days of early Autumn fills; 

A happy transport, mixed with pain's alloy. 
The sacred chambers of the memory thrills. 



FISHING. 

I've fished by night and I've fished by day 
In creek and river and lake and bay; 



j 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 129 ; 

I've fished from the dock and the steamer's deck, 
I've fished with water around my neck, 

A-hangin' onter a bamboo pole ■ 

While wadin' the brook at the swimmin' hole. j 

I've fished in the shallers an' fished in the deep, | 

An' dozed an' nodded an' gone ter sleep ^ 

An' dreamed thet I was a-pullin' out j 

The four-pound bass an' the two-pound trout, ' 

With two swift men a-goin' like sin \ 

Jest handlin' the fish thet I pulled in. j 

O fraudulent bliss! O dream of woe! > 

Fer after awhile I wake an' lo, | 

My fioat's asleep on the mirrored sky. ^ 

"I guess I'm fishin' too shaller," says I, ' 
Er maybe by takin' another peep, 

"I guess b' gosh, I'm fishin' too deep." i 

But whether too shaller er whether too deep, j 

A-fishin' awake er a-fishin' asleep, j 

Wherever I'm fishin' I always go 'way ! 

With a fine string of fish left fer some other day. ! 



LITTLE GIRLS. 



I don't sing the "barefoot boy," 

Like the famous poet; 
Tho' I glory in his joy 

I won't let him know it 
Till I sing the little girls 

In their walking slippers 
With their wealth of fluffy curls 

Taking little nippers — 



130 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Tripping lightly down the street, 

Prim and sweet and rosy; 
Ruffled dresses fitting neat, 

Showy as a posy, 
Happy love-light in their eyes 

Dancing like a fairy, 
Shining black, or blue like skies 

When the day is airy. 

I don't care much for their names — 

Names of lords or vassals — 
Don't care where they play their games, 

Cottages or castles: 
Every little girl's an elf 

If she's but forgiving; 
And I like her for herself 

Not for where she's living. 
I just like her 'cause she's good: 

Goodness lends her beauty: 
And of course, it's understood 

Goodness leads to duty. 

Yes; I know a little girl, 

Just my ideal creature: 
Not because of golden curl, 

Not for pleasing feature, 
Not because her name is Ruth, 

Not for where she's living, 
But because she is, in truth. 

Loving and forgiving. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 131 

IMMORTALITY. 



When the clock ticks on the wall 

And the world is wrapped in sleep 
And the moon shines in my hall 

Through the windows curtained deep, 
When the wind dies on the hill 

And the waves sleep in the sea, 
There's a waking spirit still 

Tapping at the door for me. 

'Tis no phantom of my mind, 

No creation out of place; 
'Tis a creature of mankind 

Y/ith a sweet but solemn face. 
Come to still my throbbing heart, 

Come to soothe my lids to sleep, 
And my troubled dreams depart 

Like the mists at morning's peep. 

In the dim uncertain light 

I can see her by my bed: 
In the silence of the night 

I can hear her muffled tread: 
On my cheek her warm breath lies. 

And I feel her lips on mine; 
In the love-light of her eyes 

All the stars of Heaven shine. 

When the light of morning gleams 
And I greet the coming day, 

Happy — I review my dream* 
Of the loved one far away. 



132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

For tho' earth be dark and still. 

Motionless and dead the sea, 
There's an angel ever will 

Come by night to comfort me. 



A RAINY DAY. 



What's so bad's a rainy day, 
When the boys can't go to play, 
Only sit around the house 
Quiet as a frightened mouse? 
How they ache to wade around 
In the water on the ground! 
Every time they move its, "Boys, 
I want you to stop that noise." 

When they stand up by the pane, 
Listening to the drizzling rain. 
Half in hope and half in doubt 
'Most inclined to jump right out. 
How can boys help but forget, 
'N' get their dirty fingers wet. 
Rub the glass with squeaking noise? 
Till they hear a, "Stop that, boys!" 

How they long to get the cat 
Wudge her into pa's new hat! 
Or play that horrid rough- 
And-tumble game of blind-man's-buff! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 133 

Seems as if their morning diet 
'S' most too rich to keep them quiet; 
Can't behave themselves no way 
Such a gloomy rainy day : 

Can't sit down and idly gaze 
At the cook-stove's sullen blaze, 
Don't like father's threatening look, 
Can't endure a picture-book; 
Trying on the sly to pop 
Out the door to see 'f 'twill stop. 
Then they keep so still, their noise 
Starts ma looking for the boys — 

Finds them wading in the pond 
'Bout a quarter mile beyond. 



TO KNOW HIS WAY. 



To Him who rose above the earth 
Yet who within the world doth live, 

Who taught the man whate'er his birth, 
To suffer and forgive, 

To Him I humbly come to-day 
To know his way. 

Not mindless of His call or yet 

Blind to the light which round me falls, 
Myself I cannot all forget 

To scale those human walls 
Which He so nobly rose above 

In Heaven's love. 



134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Yet from the dust I strive to rise, 
With Heaven's power to do my part 

In placing what I most despise 
Away from hand and heart, 

To crowd those selfish motives down 
Which hide the crown. 

How far by steps I've gone astray, 
Thus far my steps I will retrace; 

How far my eyes may look away 
From the blest resting-place, 

My gaze will weary ere the day 
Has passed away. 

And like the voice of old which spoke 
To Saul of Tarsus as he lay 

Prostrated 'neath his sinful yoke 
Of many a day, 

I hear a voice which calls to me 
I pray and see 

How far I am away from Him — 
Him I have chosen for my guide 

And feel the long sad interim. 
Till at His side, 

I humbly kneel and pray 
To know His way. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 135 

REJOICE. 



I hear the bells on Sabbath mom 

Ring merrily from the town; 
And sweetly on the air is borne 
Glad voices up and down; 
The children sing, 
The robins sing, 
And the swallow gay is flying; 

The lark is making the fields to ring, 
And all the world seems crying, 
"Rejoice." 



Here mothers croon to little ones. 

And little ones, aglee. 
Laugh till their merry music runs 
In rippling harmony; 

Their cheeks are bright, 
Their eyes are bright. 
With every nod espying — 

Their little souls so pure and white 
They, too, are gladly crying, 
"Rejoice." 



And here an old man, thin and gray, 

Sits musing in the shade; 
His toil has lasted many a day 

In harvest-field and glade; 
His pulse is slow, 



136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

His step is slow, 
But tho' he's surely dying, 

His soul its journey fain would go; 
He hears all nature crying, 

"Rejoice." 

Thanks be to Thee, Thou God of love, 

For this sweet day of rest. 
Thanks to the Christ in Heaven above, 
In whom our souls are blessed. 
This day is Thine 
And we are Thine. 
Should any heart be sighing? 

May God forbid that ever mine 
Shall other be than crying, 
"Rejoice." 



CIRCUMSTANCES. 



You know the path that men should go, 

But are you walking in it? 
And morals need a brush you know. 

But why don't you begin it? 



There is in every soul a thought. 

In every mind a notion. 
That some one else with danger fraught 

Is on a stormy ocean. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 137 

Each sees his neighbor drifting on 

And coins a direful story 
Of how said neighbor's bound to don 

The robes of purgatory. 

But spite of all our pious talk 

Our frailty tho' we hide it, 
We've somewhere made a serious balk. 

And some one has descried it. 

You're but the thing your neighbor is, 

An erring, grumbling mortal, 
The fate of Belzebub is his, 

But you knock at the Portal. 

Suppose you step into his shoes 

And face the things he faces, 
Your changing fortune might refuse 

To lend her fair grimaces, 

And in her sterner form appear. 

The change of circumstances 
Might give your neighbor equal fear 

Reflecting on your chances. 



GRANDMA. 



I knew a queer old lady, she 
Took Irish snuff and drank hot tea 
And used to think so .much of me 
My dear old grandma. 



138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

She used to make preserves and pies 
Which brought the twinkles to my eyes 
And drove the clouds all from my skies — 
My dear old grandma. 



She had a cellar, 'twas so deep 
It held a never-ending heap 
Of apples which she used to keep — 
My dear old grandma. 



And then I knew the very bin, 
The very place she kept them in, 
But grandma wouldn't let me sin — 
My dear old grandma. 



For when she thought my stomach sought 
To lead my hands astray in aught, 
The apple pan she always brought — 
My dear old grandma. 

And in the grand-est ma-est way 
She'd pat my head and smiling say, 
"We're not together every day. 
My boy and grandma." 

The years are many since she slept; 
And many times her "boy" has crept 
In silence to her grave and wept 
For dear old grandma. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 139 

He knows how much of life is bright, 
How much lies in the purer light; 
He would rejoice to be to-night, 
A boy with grandma. 

For tho' her hair was silver gray 
Her love remained the same alv/ay, 
'Twould give her "boy" a happy day 
To kiss his grandma. 



THE NEW YEAR. 



How many hearts will mourn to knov/ thou'rt here 

New year! 
To some thou dost appear a threatening cloud — 
Thy presence usherest in a funeral shroud. 
How many wait beside some dear one's bed, 
To hear at midnight thy low whisper, "Dead!" 

How slow the hours will drag till thou art here, 

New year! 
All through the old year's last and ling'ring night, 
How many tear-dimmed eyes will watch the flight 
Of time! And as the coming days roll on, 
Each wrings a tear in memory of the gone. 

Yet many hearts will joy to know thou'rt here, 

New year. 
To some thou dost appear a joyous time; 
Thy presence usherest in a v/edding chime. 
How many hearts await expectantly 
The hour that brings so much in bringing thee! 



140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

The poor await thee, glad to know thou'rt here. 

New year. 
Thou bringest them a hope of better time; 
Their destiny seems ringing in thy chime. 
The old is past, and with renewing strength 
In happiness their lot seems cast at length. 

Would God all hearts with joy might greet thee, 
here, 

New year! 
Would that the tearful eye and aching heart 
Might at thy coming suddenly depart, 
And hope on every tongue the watchword bf. 
While we wait, O coming year, for thee! 



CUT ACROSS. 



If your pathway leads astray 
Go no farther on the way. 
Tho' you never can get back 
Where you made your first wrong track, 
Go not on, nor yet stand still: 
Cut across and climb the hill, 
Cut across. 

Tho' you're on the long descent 
Guided by your natural bent, 
Even at the dark abyss 
Of the rocky precipice, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS Ul 

There is yet a chance to find 
Happiness you left behind. 
Cut across. 

Some one loves you, and somewhere 
For your sake is breathed a prayer. 
'Tis the answer that you hear 
Hourly sounding in your ear. 
Pause not idly in regret, 
You can be the victor yet. 
Cut a,cross. 

God has formed no one to fall. 
Listen to His warning call, 
You can have whate'er you will, 
Gloomy gulf or sunlit hill: 
There's a way that you may go 
To the height from 'way down low. 
Cut across. 



THE FUTURE. 



Who dreamed not in the past 
Who does not dream to-day 

That troubles cannot last 
Alway ? 

Not I nor yet not thou. 

We look ahead and see 
A better time than now 

In days to be. 



142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

The comfort of the man 
Is in a dream like this, 

A dream that lays a plan 
Of future bliss. 

The past may have been bright 
To-day, a happy day — 

But yet we see a light 
Ahead alway. 

Such are the hopes that guide 
The human spirit on 

Upon life's ebbing tide 
Till time is gone. 



WHEN I AM OLD. 



When I upon the barren earth am walking, 

Nearing the goal 
Of which to-day so vaguely I am talking 

To my soul. 
What will there be to cheer the desolation — 

What will enfold 
My lonely spirit from its last privation 

When I am old? 

When I shall hear no more the children's chatter 

I hear to-day, 
And I shall hear no more the gentle patter 

Of feet at play, 



TRANSLATIONS 143 

What then shall charm my ear in its dull waking 

As drear and cold 
The winds of autumn mournful songs are making 

And I am old? 

When youth has fled and dark skies are above me 

And winter snow 
In double silence wraps the hearts that love me, 

Shall I below 
Upon the dreary path alone be going 

In grief untold? 
Are these the fruits I'll gather from life's sowing 

When I am old? 

What tho' the spring for me in vain shall gladden, 

And summer's bloom 
Serve only by loved memories to sadden 

The impending gloom, 
Yet will I find some solace still in knowing 

That uncontrolled, 
For some the cup of joy is still o'erflowing 

Tho' I am old. 

Whate'er may be my portion at life's ending, 

Tho' I may see 
Grief's sombre visages with Sorrow wending 

The path with me, 
Tho' hearts I've known and loved shall cease their 
beating 

Yet life will hold 
The blessed hope of somehow somewhere meeting 

When I am old. 



JAN. 5 1J03 



